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Dplje jjtftttlent’ft "^tjamlliooh 


anil jltneritau ^ifcratnre* 




THE STUDENT’S HANDBOOK 


0 F 

British and American Literature, 

CONTAINING 

Sketches Biographical and Critical 

OF 

The Most Distinguished English Authors, 


From the Earliest Times to the Present Day, 

With Selections from their Writings, 


gnir Questions ahaptch to % use of Sttols. 
By the Rev. 0. L. Jenkins, A.M., 


Priest of St. Sulpiee, Late President of St. Charles's College, and formerly 
President of St. Mary's College, Baltimore. 


Edited by a Member of the same Society. 


3 



BALTIMORE: 

Published by John Murphy & Co. 


New York: Catholic Publication Society. 
Philadelphia : Claxton, Rkmsen & Haffelfinqer. 

1 8 7 6 . 

V-o „ /, 








Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, 
By S. FERTE, President of St. Charles’s College. 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 





EDITOR’S PREFACE. 


The late Rev. O. L. Jenkins, in the midst of his numerous 
occupations, had been, for several years, engaged in preparing 
the present volume, and expected soon to bring it to a conclusion 
when he was called to his reward. His manuscript has been 
carefully revised, and seven new sketches of authors have been 
added, as well as a Table of classified languages and a copious 
Index, which are deemed important companions to the text. 
The Preface is all the author’s own, and to its perusal we call the 
attention of the reader. 

The Editor. 

St. Charles’s College, Howard Co., Md., 

January lhih, 1876. 


AUTHOR’S PREFACE. 

The compiler of this work has long felt the necessity 
of some Text-Book of British and American Literature, 
which, in its general bearing, would be free from sectarian 
views and influences; and, in the extracts, be entirely 
unexceptionable in point of morality. Such a book, it 
seemed to him, would be highly desirable for Educational 
Institutions ; and might prove a suitable Manual for the 
young of both sexes, in the more advanced classes of our 
schools and colleges. 

The restricted sense in which the word Literature is 
now used, enables the compiler to confine his treatment of 
English writings to that particular department of Letters 
which comprises the Belles-Lettres, or Polite Literature, 
as distinguished from purely scientific treatises. In this 
acceptation, Literature has reference to that species of 
I* v 



VI 


author’s preface. 


writings which finds a ready response in the thoughts and 
feelings of men in general, to the exclusion of writings 
that are merely technical or professional. Its distinctive 
traits may be summed up in the definition of the distin¬ 
guished philosopher and publicist, Viscount De Bonald: | 

<£ Literature is the expression of society.” 

Whatever has relation to our common humanity, and 
interests all men alike, whether it be fictitious or real, in 
poetry or in prose, comes within the appropriate province 
of Literature. Even 'popularized science is not excluded. 
When, for instance, Izaac Walton presents to the public 
his Complete Angler, it might seem from the nature of 
the subject, and perhaps from the aim of the writer, which 
is to teach the angler’s subtle art, that his book does not 
belong to literature as understood in its more restricted 
sense. But he has managed to invest this innocent pastime 
with so much that is agreeable and interesting, as to touch 
a chord of sympathy which is felt by all; and he has thus 
produced a treatise valuable for its technical knowledge, 
and unique in English Literature. If, in the early periods, 
the name of an eminent divine or scholar is introduced, 
whose writings might seem to belong rather to the depart¬ 
ment of science than of Belles-Lettres, it is because he 
ranks among the few men of his epoch who were remarkable - 
for intellectual vigor and general knowledge. 

Notwithstanding these limitations, it is scarcely to be 
expected, so wide is the field of Literature, that in a com¬ 
pilation like the present, a complete list should be given 
of the writers that have graced the annals of British and 



author’s preface. vii 

American literature. A selection of the most distinguished 
names is all that can be accomplished. 

Conscious of his incompetency to the task, the compiler 
has not presumed to exercise his own judgment alone in 
deciding upon the merits of each writer; but he has availed 
himself of the labors of others of approved critical abilities. 
The works to which he is chiefly indebted, are Chambers’ 
Cyclopaedia of English Literature, Duyckinck’s Cyclopaedia 
of American Literature, Shaw’s Outlines of English Lit¬ 
erature, Schlegel’s History of Literature, the Encyclopaedia 
Americana, Alliboue’s History of English Authors, and 
the Compendiums of Craik, Angus, Spalding, Griswold, 
Cleveland, and Reid. It is only within a few years that 
these and similar summaries have been issued in such 
numbers from the press, and readily adopted in many of 
our schools and academies. Works of this kind, when 
the materials are carefully selected, are well calculated to 
strengthen the mind and discipline the character of the 
student. They inspire him with a love for whatever is 
just and beautiful in thought and expression; they awaken 
refined and elevated feelings, and lead to a relish for 
whatever is moral in tendency, and noble in sentiment. 

. “ It is the sweetest note that man can sing, 

When Grace in virtue’s key tunes nature’s string.” 

Southwell. 

But to secure so desirable a result, much care and dis¬ 
crimination are necessary. Young persons should not be 
left to their own inclinations solely in the choice and 
perusal of literary works. They should be especially cau- 



viii author’s preface. 

tioned against such as inculcate a loose morality, pervert 
the truths of history, or grossly insult the religious con¬ 
victions of the reader. Franklin says of himself, that the 
reading of Cotton Mather’s Essay to Do Good, gave him a 
‘tone of thinking that had an influence on some of the 
future events of his life.’ It has been well said in one of 
our text-books of English Literature : “We may be made, 
for our whole existence, better as well as wiser, by an hour 
of well-advised study, which has led to earnest meditation 
on our own character and destiny; whereas an impure 
image, a false doctrine, a groveling or malevolent wish 
excited by a book we read, may be the opening of a gate 
that will lead us downward into the abyss of moral depra¬ 
vation.”* Whenever it has been found necessary to 
allude to writings of this latter class, an effort has been 
made in these pages, either to point out the danger, or 
offer an antidote to the poison. 

If this book should tend to enlist the student’s sensibili¬ 
ties and affections in favor of the true and the good, 
whilst it leads him to admire the beautiful and the sublime, 
the compiler will have accomplished his object; and he 
would willingly leave to others the merit of perfecting a 
work, which seemed to him called for by the rapid growth 
and present flourishing condition of this important and 
comparatively new branch of modern education. 


♦History of Eng. Literature by Prof. Spalding. 






CONTENTS. 


* 


Editor’s Preface, 






PAGE. 

. V 

Author’s Preface, 







Chronological Table, 

• 


# 



. xvii 

Table of Languages, 

• 

• 

. 

# 

• , 

. xxii 


PART I. 

BR1 TISH LITER A TUBE. 

FIRST PERIOD. 


Old Saxon, or Anglo-Saxon Period, 449-1066. 


The most ancient inhabitants of Britain, . 




25 

The primitive Saxons, ...... 

Arrival of Hengist and Horsa, in 449; Subdivision of 

this 

27 

period,. 




27 

The Anglo-Saxons, ..... 




28 

Origin of the English language, 




29 

Arrival of St. Augustine in England, 




30 

Speech of an Anglo-Saxon thane, 




31 

The Lord’s Prayer in Anglo-Saxon, . 




31 

Characteristics of Anglo-Saxon poetry, 




32 

Learning of the Anglo-Saxons, . 




33 

The most distinguished men of this period, 




35 

Literature of Ireland,. 




35 

St. Gildas, the Wise,. 




36 

Casdmon,.. 




38 

St. Aldhelm,. 




39 

Venerable Bede,. 




41 

Alcuin,. 




44 

Alfred the Great,. 




47 

iElfric the Grammarian, .... 

. 



50 

Other writings—General characteristics, . 

. 


. 

53 


IX 












X 


CONTENTS. 


SECOND PERIOD. 

Semi-Saxon, ok Transition Period, 1066-1250. 

PAGE. 

The Normans,.' r )4 

The Battle of Hastings and the beginning of the Norman 
dynasty, 55 

Influence of the Norman-French on the mother tongue, . 55 

The Trouveres and the Troubadours, .... 56 

The Semi-Saxon language, ....... 56 

The Crusades,.57 

Effects of the preservation of the Latin language, . . 58 

The Monasteries,.59 

Ancient Libraries, ........ 60 

Curriculum of a liberal education,.61 

Academical degrees,.63 

The Scholastic Method,.64 

Privileges of the Universities, ...... 64 

State of the English language in the early part of the 13th 

century, .......... 65 

Lanfranc,.66 

St. Anselm, ......... 67 

John of Salisbury,.69 

The historians and rhyming chroniclers, .... 70 

THIRD PERIOD. 

Old English, or early English Period, 1250-1350. 

Old English,.73 

Rhyming Chroniclers : Robert of Gloucester, ... 75 

Robert Mannyng, . . . . . . . . 76 

Minor poems, ......... 77 

Roger Bacon,.77 














CONTENTS. xi 

FOURTH PERIOD. 

The Middle English Period, 1350-1580. 

PAGE. 

Further changes in the form of the language, ... 79 

Growing importance of literature,.80 

Sir John Mandeville,.81 

Geoffrey Chaucer,.84 

John Gower,.97 

John Lydgate,.98 

William Caxton,.101 

Sir Thomas More,.101 

Roger Ascham,.106 

• 

FIFTH PERIOD. 

The Modern English Period, 1580-1876. 

The mistake of attributing the extraordinary intellectual 

development of this period to the Protestant Reformation, 112 
Real causes of human progress and literary improvement 

in the modern period,.118 

The Augustan age of English literature, .... 122 

The Civil War, Protectorate, and Restoration, . . 123 

The eighteenth century,.123 

The nineteenth century,.124 

Robert Southwell,.125 

Edmund Spenser,.132 

Thomas Sackville,.138 

William Shakspeare,.143 

Lord Bacon,.164 

Ben Jonson,.168 

Abraham Cowley,.175 

John Milton,.179 

Samuel Butler,.196 


















CONTENTS 


xii 


John Dry den, 








PAGE. 

201 

Joseph Addison, 








211 

Daniel Defoe, 








217 

Alexander Pope, 








222 

Jonathan Swift, . 








229 

James Thomson, 








235 

William Collins, 








242 

Edward Young, . 








248 

Thomas Gray, 








254 

Oliver Goldsmith, 








260 

David Hume, 








266 

Dr. Sam. Johnson, 








271 

William Robertson, 








278 

Edward Gibbon, . 





4 



281 

Edmund Burke, . 








. 286 

William Cowper, 








291 

James Beattie, 








301 

Lord Byron, 








304 

William Roscoe, 








311 

Sir Walter Scott, 








314 

Novels and novel-reading, 








322 

George Crabbe, . 








325 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 








328 

Robert Southey, . 








333 

Thomas Campbell, 








338 

Sydney Smith, . 








342 

William Wordsworth, 








346 

Lord Jeffrey,' 








350 

Dr. Lingard, 








354 

Thomas Moore, . 








360 

Samuel Rogers, . 








367 

Henry Hallam, . 








371 

Lord Macaulay, . 








373 

William Makepeace Thackeray, 







377 










CONTENTS. 


xiii 

PAGE. 


Cardinal Wiseman,.381 

Charles Dickens,.386 

Thomas Carlyle,.392 

Dr. Newman,.395 

Alfred Tennyson,.400 

Aubrey de Yere,. 407 


PART II. 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 
FIRST PERIOD, 1607-1761. 
The Colonial Era. 


The New England Puritans, 


. 413 

Metrical compositions, .... 


. 414 

The first book published in America, 


. 414 

George Sandys,. 


. 415 

Roger Williams,. 


. 416 

Michael Wiggles worth, . . . . 


. 418 

James Logan,. 


. 420 

Cadwallader Colden,. 


. 421 

SECOND PERIOD. 



The Revolutionary Period, 

1761-1800. 


The literary character of the period, . 


. 422 

James Otis, . . . . . 


. 423 

Benjamin Franklin,. 


. 425 

Francis Hopkinson,. 


. 431 

Jeremy Belknap,. 


. * 435 

David Ramsay,. 


. 436 

Hugh Henry Brackenridge, 

• • 

. 437 

Alexander Hamilton,. 


. 439 

Thomas Jefferson,. 

2 


. 440 























XIV 


CONTENTS. 


John Jay,. 

James Madison,. 

John Trumbull,. 

Philip Freneau,. 

THIRD PERIOD. 

The Present Century. 

The progress of American literature, . 

Joseph Dennie,. 

Charles Brockden Brown, .... 
William Wirt, ...... 

John Marshall,. 

James Hillhouse, ..... 

Washington Allston,. 

Bishop England,. 

Daniel Webster,. 

Fenimore Cooper,. 

Lydia H. Sigourney,. 

William H. Prescott, .... 

Washington Irving, . . . . . 

Robert Walsh,. 

James Paulding,. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck,. 

Jared Sparks,. 

George Ticknor,. 

Archbishop Spalding, .... 

Richard H. Dana,. 

William C. Bryant,. 

George Bancroft, ..... 
Henry W. Longfellow, .... 

Index, . 

Questions,. 










THE STUDENT’S HANDBOOK 


OF 


British and American Literature. 








CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 


I. British Literature. 


A. D. 

Anglo-Saxon Occupation, . 449. 
First Danish Invasion, . . 787. 


Norman Dynasty. 

Reigned from 
William I., the Con¬ 
queror, . . . 1066-1087. 

William II., Rufus, . 1087-1100. 
Henry I., Beauclerc,. 1100-1135. 

House op Blois. 


Stephen, . . . 1135-1154. 


Plantagenets. 


Henry II., . . . 1154-11S9. 

Richard I., Coeur do 


Liom 

John, l,aekland, 
Henry III., 
Edward^,. 


. 1189-1199. 
. 1199-1216. 
. 1216-1272. 
. 1272-1307. 


Edward II., 
Edward III., 
Richard II., 


. 1307-1327. 
. 1327-1377. 
. 1377-1399. 


House op Lancaster. 


Henry IV., 

Henry V., . 
Henry VI., 


. 1399-1413. 

. 1413-1422. 
. 1422-1461. 


House op York. 


Edward IV., 
Edward V., 
Richard III., 


. 1461-1483. 
. 1483-1483. 
. 1483-1485. 


Writers. 

Death. 

Gildas, 

. 565.(?) 

Ccedmon, 

. 676. 

St. Aldhelm, . 

. 709. 

Ven. Bede, 

. 735. 

Alcuin, 

. 804. 

Alfred the Great, 

. 901. 

iElfric, . . . 

. 1006. 


Lanfranc, 

# 

. 1089. 

St. Anselm, 

• 

. 1109. 


William of Malmesbury, 1143. 
Geoffrey of Monmouth, 1154. 


John of Salisbury, . . 1182.' 

Layamon, . . . 1190. 

Robert of Gloucester, . 1290. 

Roger Bacon, . . . 1294. 

Robert Mannyng, . . 1350. 

Sir John Mandeville, . 1372. 


Geoffrey Chaucer, . . 1400. 

John Gower, . . . 1402. 

John Lydgate, . . 1430. 


House op Tudor. 


Henry VII., 
H#nry VIII., 
Edward VI., 
Mary, 


1485-1509. William Caxton, 
1509-1547. Sir Thomas More, . 
1547-1553. 

1553-1558. 


. 1492. 
. 1535. 


2 * 


xvii 









XV111 


TABLE OF BRITISH LITERATURE, 


Reigned from 
Elizabeth, . . . 1558-1603. 


House of Stuart. 


Writers. 
Roger Ascham, 
Robert Southwell, 
Edmund Spenser, 


Death. 
. 1568. 
. 1595. 
. 1599. 


James I., . . . 1603-1625. 

Charles I., . . . 1625-1649. 

Commonwealth, . . 1649-1653. 
Oliver Cromwell, Pro- 


Thomas Sackville, . . 1608. 

William Shakspeare, . 1616. 

Lord F. Bacon, . . 1626. 

Benjamin Jonson, . . 1637. 


tector, 

. 1653-1658. 




Richard Cromwell, 




Protector, 

. 1658-1660. 




Restoration of the Stuarts. 




Charles II., 

. 1660-1685. 

Abraham Cowley, 


. 1667. 



John Milton, . 


. 1674. 



Samuel Butler, 

# 

. 1680. 

James II., . 

. 1685-1688. 




William III. 

and 




Mary II., 

. 1689-1695. 




William III. 

, alone. 1695-1702. 

John Dryden, 


. 1700. 

Anne, 

. 1702-1714. 



House 

of Hanover. 




George I., . 

• 1714-1727. 

Joseph Addison, 

• 

T^'719. 

George II.,. 

. 1727-1760. 

Daniel Defoe, 

• 

. 1731. 



Alexander Pope, 

• 

. 1744. 



Jonathan Swift, 

• 

,1745. 



James Thomson, 

• 

$ 1748. 



William Collins, 

• 

. 1756. 

George III., 

. 1760-1820. 

Edward Young, 

• 

. 1765. 



Thomas Gray, 

• 

. 1771. 



Oliver Goldsmith, 

• 

. 1774. 



David Hume, 

• 

. 1776. 



Dr. S. Johnson, 


. 1784. 



William Robertson, 

. 1793. 



Edward Gibbon, 

• 

. 1794. 



Edmund Burke, 

• 

. 1797. 



William Cowper, 

• 

. 1800. 

George IV., 


James Beattie, 

• 

. 1803. 

. 1820-1S30. 

Lord G. G. Byron, 

• 

. 1824. 

William IV., 

, . . 1830-1837. 

William Roscoe, 

• 

. 1831. 



Sir Walter Scott, 


. 1832. 



George Crabbe, 

• 

. 1832. 

Victoria, . 

. . 1837- 

Samuel T. Coleridge, 

. 1834. 

Robert Southey, 


. 1843. 



Thomas Campbell 

9 

. 1844. 



Sydney Smith, 


. 1845. 



William Wordsworth, 

. 1850. 



Lord Jeffrey, . 


. 1850* 



Dr. Lingard, . 


. 1851. 



Thomas Moore, 


. 1852. 







TABLE OF AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


XIX 


Writers. Death. 

Samuel Rogers, . . 1855. 

Henry Hallam, . . 1859. 

Lord Macaulay, . . I860. 

"William M. Thackeray, . 1863. 
Cardinal Wiseman, . 1865. 
Charles Dickens, . . 1870. 

Thomas Carlyle, 

Dr. Newman, . 

Alfred Tennyson, . 

Aubrey de Yere, 


II. American Literature. 


Colonial Era. 


Yrs. 


Kings of England. 


Virginia colonized.1607 

New York settled by 

the Dutch.1614 

Massachusetts colon¬ 
ized.1620 

New Hampshire col¬ 
onized.1623 

Connecticut coloniz’d.1633 
Maryland Charter ob¬ 
tained .1632 

Maryland colonized....l634 
Rhode Island colon¬ 
ized.1636 

Rhode Island Charter 

obtained.1644 

Delaware settled by 
Swedes and Finns...1648 
Pennsylvania settled 

by Swedes.1643 

New York surrender¬ 
ed to the English...1641 


New Jersey as a separ¬ 
ate province from 
New York.1664 


Pennsylvania coloniz¬ 
ed by Penn.1681 


Georgia colonized.1733 


James I., 

1603-1625. 


Charles I., 

1625-1649. 


Comm’nwealth 
1649-1653. 
Oliver Crom¬ 
well, Protec¬ 
tor, 1653-1653. 
Richard Crom¬ 
well, Protec¬ 
tor, 1658-1660. 
Charles II., 

1660-1685. 
James II., 

1685-1683. 
William III., 
and Mary, 1689- 
1702. 

Anne 1702-1714. 
George I., 

1714-1727. 
George II., 

1727-1760. 


Colleges founded 
before 1800. 

Writers. Date of 
Death. 


George Sand vs, 
1643. 

Harvard, 1640. 

♦ 



Roger Williams, 
1683. 

William and 
Mary, 1693. 
Yale, 1700. 

Wigglesworth, 

1705. 

Princeton, 1746. 

• 

Columbia, 1754 
University of 
Pennsylvania, 
1749. 

James Logan, 

1751. 




























XX 


TABLE OE AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


Colonial Era. 


Revolutionary Period. 
Speech of Otis. 


Yrs. 


Kings oi England. 


Colleges founded 
before 1800 , 


1761 


George III., 

17G0-1820. 


Brown Univer¬ 
sity, 1704. 
Dartmouth, 


1769. 


Passage of Stamp Aet.1765 
First Colonial Con¬ 
gress at New York...1765 
Declaration of Inde¬ 
pendence.1776 

Treaty of alliance with 
France,.177S 


Rutgers, 1770. 


Treaty of peace with 
Great Britain rati¬ 
fied.1783 


Dickinson,1783. 


Writers. Date of 
Death. 


Cadwallader 
Colden, 1776. 


James Otis, 1783. 


United States. 

First Congress under 
the New Constitu¬ 
tion met in New 
York.1789 


Presidents. 

George Washington....1789 


John Adams.1791 


Thomas Jefferson.1801 

James Madison.1809 


St. John’s, Md., 
1784. 


Washington, 
Lexington, 
Va., 1781. 

Washington, 
Md., 1783. 

Franklin Col¬ 
lege, Athens, 
Ga., 1785. 

Franklin and 
Marshal, 1787. 

University of 
North Caro¬ 
lina, 1789. 

University of 
Vermont,1791 

Georgetown, I). 
C., 1792. 

Bowdoin Col¬ 
lege,Me. ,1792. 

Williams Col¬ 
lege, Mass., 
1793. 

Union College, 
Schenecteday, 
N. Y., 1795. 

Transylvania 
University, 
Ky., 1798. 

St. Mary’s Col¬ 
lege, Balti¬ 
more, 1799. 


James Monroe.1817 

John Quincy Adams...1825 


Qeorge IV., 

1820-1S30. 


Beni. Franklin, 
1790. 


Francis IlQpkin- 
son, 1791. 


Jeremy Belk¬ 
nap, 1798. 


Alexander Ham¬ 
ilton, 1804. 

C. B. Brown,1810. 

Joseph Dennie, 
1812. 

David Ramsay. 

18151 

H. H. Bracken- 
ridge, 1816. 

Thomas Jeffer¬ 
son, 1826. 

























TABLE OF AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


XXI 


United States. Yrs. 


Andrew Jackson.1821) 


M. Van Buren.1837 

W. H. Harrison.1841 

John Tyler.—1841 

James K. Polk.1845 

Gen’l Zachary Taylor.,1849 
Millard Fillmore.1850 

Franklin Pierce.1853 

James Buchanan.1857 


Abraham Lincoln.1861 

Andrew Johnson.1SC5 

Ulysses Grant.I860 


Kings of England. 

Writers. Date of Death. 

William IV.,1830-1837. 

John Jay. 



John Trumbull. 



Philip Freneau. 



William Wirt. 



John Marshall. 

.1835. 


James Madison. 

.1836. 

Victoria, 1S37- 


• 


J. A. nillhouse. 

.1841. 


John England. 

.1842. 


William Allston. 

.1843. 


Jas. Fenimore Cooper.1851. 

• 

Daniel Webster. 

.1852. 


Lydia H. Sigourney.... 

.1855. 


William H. Prescott.... 

.1859. 


Washington Irving. 

.1859. 


Robert Walsh. 

.1859. 


James K. Paulding. 

.1860. 


Jared Sparks. 

.1S6G. 


Fitz-Greene Halleck...l807. 


George Ticknor. 

1871. 


Archbishop Spalding...1872. 


Richard H. Dana. 



William CullenBryant 



Geo. Bancroft. 



H. W. Longfellow. 



















































TABLE OF LANGUAGES. 


xxii 


TABLE OF LANGUAGES. 



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i—i 

EH 

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GO 

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TABLE OF LANGUAGES. 


A 

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c* 


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05 


C W> 
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br, 

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xxiii 





Part I. 

BRITISH LITERATURE. 

FIRST PERIOD. ' 

OLD SAXON, OR ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD, 449-1066. 

(From the Saxon occupation to the Norman invasion.) 

The most ancient inhabitants of Britain .— Primitive 
Saxons .— Arrival of Eengist and Horsa in 449; 
Subdivision of this period .— The Anglo-Saxons .— 
Origin of the English Language.—Arrival of St. 
Augustine in England.—Speech of an Anglo-Saxon 
thane .— The Lord's Prayer in Saxon .— Characteris¬ 
tics of Anglo-Saxon poetry.—Learning of the Anglo- 
Saxons .— The most distinguished men of this period. 
— Literature of Ireland. — St. Gildas. — Csedmon .— 
St. Aldhelm .— Venerable Bede. — Alcuin.—Alfred the 
Great. — JElfric. 

The most ancient inhabitants of Britain. 

The primitive history of the four great races that first 
peopled what is now termed modern Europe, is involved 
in great obscurity. It is well known however that, at the 
dawn of the Christian era, the southern portion of the 
European continent was inhabited by the Pelasgic; the 
eastern, by the Slavonic; the central, by the Germanic; 
and the western, by the Celtic race.* 


See Table of the four principal divisions of the European languages. 

3 25 



26 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


The Celts were variously denominated: in France, they 
were called Gauls; in Britain, Britons; and in Ireland, 
Iliberni; whilst, in Spain, they mingled with the Iberi, 
and formed the Oeltiberi. The British Celts, on account 
of their isolated position, had for a long time little to fear 
from foreign invasion. In the year 55 before Christ, the 
first attempt afconqnest was made by the Roman legions 
under the command of Julius Caesar. Notwithstanding 
the nominal tribute to which they were obliged to submit, 
the Britons did not lose their independence. The war was 
afterwards renewed by Claudius, and continued for thirty 
years, when Agricola completed the conquest of the Island 
with the exception of Scotland and Wales, and incorpo¬ 
rated it into the Roman empire, (a. d. 18.) The earliest 
records that we possess of the condition of the islanders at 
this time, show that they had not emerged from the state 
of barbarism; they led a nomadic and predatory mode of 
life, and had the habit of tattooing and staining the body. 
Soon, however, the efforts of Roman missionaries succeeded 
in bringing the Britons to the light of faith. As early as 
the second century, Pope Eleutherius, at the solicitation 
of Lucius, a British prince, sent SS. Fugatius and Dami- 
anu§, or, as the Welsh chronicle quoted by Usher calls 
them, Fagan and Dervan, to baptize the converted Britons. 
It is, moreover, certain that a regular hierarchy was insti¬ 
tuted before the close of the third century; for, by con¬ 
temporary writers the Church of Britain is always put on 
an equality with the Churches of Spain and Gaul; and in 
one of the earliest of the western councils, that of Arles in 
314, we meet with the names of three British bishops, viz., 
Eborius of York, Restitutus of London, and Adelphus of 
Riehborough. But the knowledge of the Gospel and 
British civilization were doomed to disappear within two 
centuries, before the ignorance and barbarism of the Saxon 
invader. 


OLD SAXON, Oil ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 


21 


The primitive Saxons. 

About the middle of the second century, the Saxons, an 
obscure tribe of barbarians of the Germanic race, occupied 
the district on the right bank of the river Elbe. At the 
end of two hundred years, their name had become common 
to the nations that dwelt from the extremity of the penin¬ 
sula of Jutland to the Rhine. They were divided into 
three independent tribes governed by hereditary chiefs, 
and known, according to their geographical position, as 
1. the western tribe, or Westphalians, on the left bank of 
the Weser; 2. the eastern tribe, or Ostphalians, on the 
banks of the Elbe; and 3. the central tribe, or Angrians,* 
who were located between the other two divisions. Once 
a year the chiefs of the tribes assembled to deliberate on 
affairs of general interest. Pillage on land and piracy at 
sea were their only occupations. In their expeditions on 
the North Sea, they attacked the coasts of Britain, Bel¬ 
gium, and Northern Gaul; and, though the Roman impe¬ 
rial fleet had often been employed to check their incursions, 
their dauntless and adventurous spirit could never be sub¬ 
dued. In the third century, their devastations on the 
British and Belgian coasts occasioned the appointment of 
a particular officer —Gomes littoris Saxonici —to defend 
those regions: but, as the power of Rome declined, the 
audacity of the Saxons increased; their expeditions became 
more frequent, their descents more destructive. 

Arrival of Hengist and Horsa, in 449; Subdivision 
of this period. 

In the year 449, Hengist and Horsa, two Saxon chiefs, 
with a band of Angles, Saxons, and Jutes, succeeded in 

* The Angrians of the Middle Ages were the descendants of the Angri- 
varii, mentioned by Tacitus. 




28 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


effecting a settlement on the coast of Britain. Yortigern, 
a British prince, availed himself of this warlike band, to 
repel the incursions of the Scots and Piets. For their 
services, he gave them lands in the county of Kent; but 
the Saxons soon made themselves independent, and founded, 
in 453, a kingdom which kept the name of Kent. Succes¬ 
sive bands, attracted by the good fortune of their com¬ 
patriots, arrived in Britain; and, after long struggles with 
the native inhabitants, established separate independent 
kingdoms. To the south of Kent was formed Sussex (Sulk 
Seaxe); to the west, Wessex (West Seaxe); to the east, 
Essex (East Seaxe). These kingdoms, with Northumber¬ 
land, East Anglia, and Mercia, completed the Anglo- 
Saxon Heptarchy. These seven kingdoms were, by the 
superior genius of Egbert, king of Wessex, absorbed into 
one in the ninth century. From this date until the middle 
of the eleventh century, the history of the Anglo-Saxon 
monarchy presents a confused and melancholy picture of 
bloody incursions of, and fierce resistance to, the barbarous 
Danes, who endeavored to treat the Saxons as the Saxons 
had treated the native Britons. 

The old Saxon period may consequently be supposed to 
begin with the year 449, and to continue until the memora¬ 
ble battle of Hastings, in 1066, which put an end to the 
Saxon line of monarchs, and placed William the Con¬ 
queror, Duke of Normandy, on the throne of England. 

This period may also be subdivided, according to the 
invasions of the island by the Saxons and by the Danes, 
into the Anglo-Saxon period, from 449 to T8T ; and the 
Danish-Saxon period, from 787 to 1066. 


The Anglo-Saxons. 

The Saxons that first entered Britain, appear to have 
been, as their name indicates, a fierce, perfidious horde ofi 


29 


OLD SAXON, OR ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 

piratical adventurers; the word gcaxan (Saxons) mean¬ 
ing men of the short sword or dagger. By the ancient 
writers, they are unanimously classed with the most 
barbarous of the nations that invaded and dismembered 
the Roman Empire. Impelled by their natural ferocity, 
and goaded on by the stubborn resistance of the Britons, 
they showed themselves such merciless enemies that, at 
the end of a century, the British race was confined to the 
mountains of Wales and the maritime districts of Corn¬ 
wall. The Britons, in their distress, sent the following 
letter to iEtius, then governor of Roman Gaul: “ To 
JEtius, now consul for the third time; the groans of the 
Britons.” And again a little farther on, “ The barbarians 
drive us to the sea, the sea throws us back on the barba¬ 
rians ; thus two modes of death await us; we are either 
slain or drowned.” 

« 

Origin of the English Language. 

Before the Saxon invasion, the languages spoken by the 
aboriginal inhabitants of Britain were but dialects of the 
ancient Celtic, a language quite different from the Anglo- 
Saxon. Nor did the Roman occupation of the Island, 
which lasted upwards of three hundred years, (a. d. 78- 
411,) effect any material change in the speech of the 
people. It was only after the predatory German tribes of 
the Saxon Confederation had obtained a strong foothold 
in Britain, that the Celtic began to be entirely supplanted 
by the Anglo-Saxon language, a Low-Germanic dialect, 
akin to the modern Dutch, but with many Scandinavian 
forms and words. This Anglo-Saxon, or Germanic ele¬ 
ment, is the basis of the English language, and furnishes 
the system of laws that regulates its etymology and syntax. 
Our modern English is therefore nothing more than the 
3* 


30 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Anglo-Saxon modified by the Latin through the Norman- 
French. It is supposed that of the 38,000 words, exclu¬ 
sive of preterits and participles, contained in our modern 
English dictionaries, 23,000, or five eighths of the whole, 
are of Saxon origin. 


Arrival or St. Augustine in England. 

The earliest form of the Saxon language cannot now 
be known ; and Saxon literature dates only from the con¬ 
version of the Saxons to Christianity. They were very 
probably, according to Dr. Samuel Johnson, without an 
alphabet; and they may be supposed to have continued 
in a state of barbarism until the year 596, when St. Augus¬ 
tine, at the solicitation of Fope St. Gregory the Great, 
came from Rome to convert them to the Christian faith. 
The circumstances which led to so happy an event, are too 
interesting to be omitted here. Some Anglo-Saxon slaves 
had been offered for sale in a market at Rome. Gregory, 
as yet but a monk, was struck by the beauty of their fea¬ 
tures, and asked to what country they belonged. “ They 
are Angles,” was the reply; “but they are idolaters.” 
“.Were they Christians,” he exclaimed, “they would no 
longer be Angles, but angels.” From that time, he had 
conceived the design of rescuing the nation from the 
errors of paganism, but was unable to execute it before 
he was raised to the pontifical throne. St. Augustine and 
the zealous missionaries who accompanied him, not only 
succeeded in establishing Christianity among the pagan 
Saxons, and in softening by its mild influence the harsher 
features of their origin ; but also excited a thirst for 
knowledge among the people. These good missionaries 
instructed them in the use of the Roman alphabet, and 
taught them to read Greek and Latin books. How im- 


OLD SAXON, OR ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 


31 


portant this was will clearly appear, when we consider 
that, at the time, no literature existed except in these two 
languages. 


Speech of an Anglo-Saxon thane. 

When Edwin, king of Northumbria, had resolved, in 
627, to become a Christian, he convoked an assembly of 
his principal friends and counsellors, and required them to 
state their sentiments on the subject of religion. One of 
them, seeking for information respecting the origin and 
destiny of man, ventured upon the following speech, which, 
while it showed his practical good sense, exhibits also a 
striking picture of national manners: “Often,” said he, 
“0 king, in the depth of winter, while you are feasting 
with your thanes, and the fire is blazing on the hearth in 
the midst of the hall, you have seen a sparrow pelted by 
the storm enter at one door and escape at the other. 
During its passage it was visible; but whence it came or 
whither it went, you know not. Such seems to me to be 
the life of man. He walks the earth for a few years ; but 
what precedes his birth, or what is to follow after death, 
we cannot tell. Undoubtedly, if the new religion can 
unfold these important secrets, it must be worthy of our 
attention, and ought to be followed.” * 

The Lord’s Prayer in Saxon. 

Asa specimen of the earliest form of Saxon prose, we 
give the following most ancient copy of the Lord’s Prayer, 
said to have been written by iEadfrid, bishop of Lindis- 
farne, about a. d. 700 : 


* Bede, B. n., C. 13. 





32 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Urin Fader thic arth in heofnes, 

Our Father which art in heaven, 

1 Sic Gehalgad thin noma, 
be hallowed thine name, 

2 To cymeth thin rye, 

To come thine kingdom, 

3 Sic thin willa sue is in heofnes and In eortho. 

Be thine will so is in heaven and in earth. 

4 Urin hlef ofirwistlie sel us to daig. 

Our loaf super-excellent give us to-day. 

5 And forgefe us scylda urna, sue we forgefan scyldgum urum 
And forgive us debts ours so we forgiven, debts of ours, 

6 And no inlead usig in custnung, 
and not lead us into temptation, 

7 A1 gefrig usich frun ifle 

And free us from evil.—Amen. 

Characteristics op Anglo-Saxon poetry. 

The vernacular poetry of the Anglo-Saxons has been 
ably described by Mr. Turner. Its principal character¬ 
istics appear to be a constant inversion of phrase, with 
frequent use of alliteration, metaphor, and periphrases. 
The style is highly elliptical. Rhyme seems neither to 
have been sought after, nor rejected : it occurs but seldom. 
Dr. Linguard thinks that their versification consisted in 
such an arrangement of words as might be easily adapted 
to some favorite national tune. All their poetry was 
originally designed to be sung to the harp. A short 
specimen is here given from Caedmon. Another extract 
from the same poet may be seen on page 39. 


Ne wees her tlie giet, nymthe Nor had there here as yet, save 
heolstersceado, the vault-shadow, 

Wiht geworden; do tlies wida Aught existed; but this wide 
grund abyss 


OLD SAXON, OR ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 33 

Stod deop and dem—drihtne Stood deep and dim—strange 
fremde, to its Lord, 

Idel and unnyt. Idle and useless. 

(From Guest's English Rhythms.) 

Learning op tiie Anglo-Saxons. 

The chief successes of the early Anglo-Saxon writers were 
obtained through the medium of Latin, then and long after 
the common language of Europe. The rough vernacular 
was employed in popular poetry, or in such prose writings 
as had a didatic purpose for the benefit of the laity. 

In the pursuit of eloquence and of poetry, the Saxon 
student was frequently led astray by a vitiated taste. The 
laborious trifles, which, during the decline of taste, exer¬ 
cised the ingenuity of the Greek and the Latin writers, were 
seriously cultivated and improved by the most eminent of 
the Saxon scholars. In their works we meet with acrostics 
composed of the initial and final letters of each line; or 
with poems in which the natural difficulty of the metre is 
increased by the addition of middle and final rhymes. 

The following specimen is taken from a poem in octo¬ 
syllabic verse, composed by a disciple of St. Boniface in 
honor of St. Aldhelm. The alliteration is generally better 
supported in the first than in the second line of the couplet. 

Summo satore sobolis 
Satus fuisti nobilis, 

Generosa progenitus 
Genitrice, expeditus, 

Statura spectabilis, 

Statu et forma agilis. 

Latin rhymes of this or a similar construction were called 
Leonine verses probably from Pope St. Leo II., who was 
skilled in music and poetry, and who composed many 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


34 

hymns for the offices of the Church. Some of these rhym¬ 
ing hymns are unsurpassed even as literary compositions. t 
Thus the Stabat Mater breathes a truly plaintive sweet¬ 
ness and sacred enthusiasm; and no poem exists in any 
other language more tender and more awe-inspiring than 
the wonderful sequence Dies irae , dies ilia. In England, 
however, the Leonine verse was principally used as a 
vehicle for satire and humor. 

From the study of Greek and Latin, the student was 
conducted to that of philosophy, after having acquired the 
preliminary and necessary sciences of logic and numbers. 
His acquaintance with logic he derived from the writings 
of Aristotle and his disciples. The science of numbers 
equalled that of logic in importance, and surpassed it in 
difficulty of attainment. The reader will not wonder at 
this, if he pause to reflect on the many disadvantages 
against which our ancestors were condemned to struggle. 
The Arabic figures which the Christians received from the 
Mahometans of Spain, about the close of the tenth century, 
have so facilitated the acquisition of this science, as to 
render it familiar even to children. But the Saxons were 
ignorant of so valuable an improvement, and every arith¬ 
metical operation was performed with the aid of seven 
Roman letters, C. D. I. L. M. Y. X. 

From this it appears that the obstacles to be overcome 
in the various branches of learning were numerous and 
formidable, and to the candid critic should be a subject of 
regret rather than of blame. And when he considers that 
the Saxon writers are often equal, sometimes superior, to 
many who lived before the dismemberment of the Roman 
empire, instead of despising he will be inclined to approve 
and value their exertions.* 


* Lingard’s Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church, c. X. 



OLD SAXON, OR ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 


35 


Tiie most distinguished men of this period. 

Theodore of Tarsus, who was consecrated at Rome 
archbishop of Canterbury, and the Abbot Adrian, were 
sent to England, a. d. 668. Nothing could be more 
fortunate for the Anglo-Saxon literature than the arrival 
of these men in the country. Their conversation and 
exhortations excited a great emulation for literary studies. 
Among the native^, St. Benedict Biscop, founder of the 
Abbey of Wearmouth, must be mentioned with applause. 
Egbert, who became archbishop of York in 732, was also 
famous in his day. But the three great Anglo-Saxon 
luminaries of the eighth century, who contributed so much 
to increase intellectual culture among their countrymen, 
were Aldhelm, Bede, and Alcuin. In the following 
century, a great accession of knowledge was introduced by 
the illustrious king Alfred the Great, who founded semi¬ 
naries of learning, encouraged letters by his own example, 
and was the munificent patron of scholars. Of these 
distinguished men we shall treat more fully in the sequel. 

Literature of Ireland. 

For more than two centuries, Ireland held the preemi¬ 
nence in Europe for her schools and religious literature. 

Many Anglo-Saxons both of the higher and the lower 
ranks, as well as scholars from the continent, attracted by 
the fame of her learned sanctuaries, resorted thither to 
pursue their studies or their devotions. In the life of 
Sedgenus, of the eighth century, we read : 

Exemplo Patrum, commotus amore legendi, 

Ivit ad Hibernos, sophia mirabile claros. 

With love of learning and example fired, 

To Ireland, famed for wisdom, he retired, 


36 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


The Welsh and Irish tongues preserved to our times in 
ancient writings, are undoubtedly the purest remains of the 
ancient Celtic. The Erse of Scotland is more corrupt, as 
the inhabitants of the Highlands, for several ages, had no 
schools for the preservation of their language. The 
ancient metrical relics still extant in the Irish-Gaelic 
language, consist of bardic songs and historical legends. 
Competent critics have admitted the great historical value 
of the prose chronicles preserved in the monasteries of the 
* Island of Saints.’ 

ST. GILDAS, THE WISE, THE EARLIEST BRITISH 
HISTORIAN, 494-565 (?). 

. St. Gildas, one of the most illustrious solitaries of the 
sixth century, ranks as the first British historian. He was 
the son of a British lord, and received his early education 
in the monastery of St. Iltutus, in Glamorganshire, the 
most famous school then in Britain. This monastery, 
called Llan-Iltut (the church of Iltut) from the name of 
its founder, was situated near the sea-coast, not far from 
Llan-Carvan. It reckoned among its scholars St. David, 
patron of Wales, St. Samson, St. Magloire, and many 
other personages, distinguished alike for learning and 
sanctity. 

St. Gildas wrote eight canons of discipline. He also 
translated from British into Latin the famous Molmutine 
laws,* which gave the privilege of sanctuary and protec¬ 
tion to fugitives and criminals. But he is principally 
known by his Epistola de Excidio Brilannise et Castiga- 
tio Ecclesiaslici Ordinis. It is a severe invective against 
the Britons in which St. Gildas paints the vices of the 

* Geoffrey of Monmouth; British History, B. iii., c. v. These laws were 
afterwards translated into Anglo-Saxon by King Alfred. 




OLD SAXON, OR ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. St 

people, the clergy, and their rulers. Like another Jere- 
mias, he pronounces the misfortunes attending the Anglo- 
Saxon invasion, an effect of the justice of God upon the 
nation. The title of the old translation is as follows: The 
Epistle of Gildas, the most ancient British Author , who 
flourished in the yere of our Lord 51^6. And who , by 
his great erudition , sanctitie, and wisdome, acquired the 
name of Sapiens. Faithfully translated out of the ori - 
ginall Latine. London , 12mo. t 1638. It has been re¬ 
published in Bohn’s Antiquarian Library. 

About the year 527, St. Gildas sailed to Brittany, in 
France. He wrote his invective ten years after his arrival 
there and in the forty-fourth year of his age, as is gathered 
from his life and writings. He is still honored in France, 
and is patron of Yannes, an ancient town of Brittany 
situated near the sea-coast. There are three parishes in 
Brittany that bear his name. 

The following extract is taken from the Preface of his 
Epistle. 

Whatever in this my epistle I may write in my humble 
but well meaning manner, rather by way of lamentation than for 
display, let no one suppose that it springs from contempt of 
others, or that I foolishly esteem myself as better than they;— 
for, alas! the subject of my complaint is the general destruction 
of every thing that is good, and the general growth of evil 
throughout the land ; but that I would condole with my country 
in her distress and rejoice to see her revive therefrom : for it is 
my present purpose to relate the deeds of an indolent and sloth¬ 
ful race, rather than the exploits of those who have been valiant 
in the field. 

g 2. I will, therefore, if God be willing, endeavor to say a few 
words about the situation of Britain, her disobedience and sub¬ 
jection, her rebellion, second subjection and dreadful slavery—of 
her religion, persecution, holy martyrs, heresies of different 
kinds—of her tyrants, her hostile and ravaging nations— of her 
first devastation, her defence, her second devastation, and second 

4 


38 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


taking vengeance—of her third devastation, of her famine, and 
letters to Agitiusof her victory and her crimes—of the sud¬ 
den rumor of enemies—of her famous pestilence—of her counsels 
—of her last enemy, far more cruel than the first—of the subver¬ 
sion of her cities and of the remnant that escaped; and finally of 
the peace which, by the will of God, has been granted in these 
our times. 


CAEDMON, THE EARLIEST ANGLO-SAXON POET OF 
NOTE, d. 676. 

The catalogue of writers in the Anglo-Saxon language 
begins with Csedmon, a monk of Whitby, who wrote a 
Paraphrase of portions of Holy Writ, and has been styled 
the Anglo-Saxon Milton, because he sang of Lucifer and 
of Paradise lost. Caedmon is first mentioned by venerable 
Bede, who gives us to understand that he occupied, at 
least occasionally, the humble post of cowherd. He was, 
at first, so ignorant as to be unable to bear his part in the 
alternate vocal music with which our Saxon forefathers 
recreated themselves at their feasts. Caedmon, it is related, 
was supernaturally inspired with the gift of song, whilst 
asleep in his stable. Bede informs us that he celebrated 
in magnificent strains much of the Old and New Testa¬ 
ments’ history: “the terrors of the day of judgment, the 
pains of hell, and the sweetness of the heavenly king¬ 
dom.” He is the first Anglo-Saxon writer of note, who 
composed in his own language. He died about the 
year 676. 

His Song of the Creation begins with the following 
verses: 


* or iEtius, according to another reading. The address to iEiius, one of 
the greatest generals of the Western Roman Empire, has already been 
mentioned. See p. 29. 



O^D SAXON, OR ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 


39 


Nu we sceolan herian,* 
heofon-rices we§rd, 
metodes mihte, 
and his nod-ge-t^one, 
wera wulder feeder 1 
swa he wundra ge-hwaes, 
ece dryhten 
oord onstealde. 

He aerest ge-sceop. 
ylda bearnum 
heofon to hrofe, 
halig scyppend ! 
tha middan-geard 
mon-cynnes weard, 
ece dryhten, 
aefter teode, 
firum foldan 
frea aelmihtig! 


Now we shall praise 
the guardian of heaven, 
the might of the Creator, 
and his counsel 

the works of the Father of Glory; 
how he, of all wonders, 
the Eternal Lord, 
made the beginning. 

He first created 

for the children of men 

heaven as a canopy ; 

the Holy Creator ! 

then the world 

the guardian of mankind, 

the Eternal Lord, 

afterwards made 

the earth for man ; 

the almighty master! 


ST. ALDIIELM, THE SACRED MINSTREL, 656 (?)-709. 

St. Aldhelm,f an eminent scholar and promoter of lit¬ 
erature in the seventh century, was a descendant of the 
West-Saxon kings. He built a stately monastery at 
Malmesbury, of which he himself was the first abbot. After 
he had governed the monastery for thirty years, he was 
consecrated bishop of Sherborne, where he died in 709. 

“It is evident,” says Dr. Henry, “from St. Aldhelm’s 
works which are still extant, that he had read the most 
celebrated authors of Greece and Rome; and that he was 
no contemptible writer in the. languages in which these 
authors wrote.” According to Camden, he was the first 
Saxon that wrote in the Latin language, both in prose 


* Modern letters are substituted for those peculiar Saxon characters em¬ 
ployed to express th, dh, and w. 
f Aldhelm signifies old helmet. 



40 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


and verse; and he composed a book for the instruction of 
his countrymen on the prosody of that language. Venera¬ 
ble Bede gives the following character of him: “He was 
a man of universal erudition, having an elegant style, and 
being wonderfully w r ell acquainted with books, both on 
philosophical and religious subjects.” King Alfred the 
Great declared that Aldhelm was the best of all the Saxon 
poets, and that a favorite song, which was universally sung 
in his time, nearly 200 years after the author’s death, was 
of his composition. It is related of him that, when he was 
abbot of Malmesbury, having a fine voice, and great skill 
in music as well as in poetry ; and observing the back¬ 
wardness of his barbarous countrymen to listen to grave 
instructions, he composed a number of little poems, which 
he sung to them after mass in the sweetest manner: and 
by these means they were gradually instructed and civil¬ 
ized. William of Malmesbury bears this testimony con¬ 
cerning him: “ If you examine his writings attentively, 
you will find in them Grecian acuteness, Roman elegance, 
and English dignity.” Dr. Lingard, however, in his 
Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church, is more reserved 
in his praises, and says of his Latin works: “ With an 
exception in favor of some passages in his poems, they are 
marked by a pompous obscurity of language, an affecta¬ 
tion of Grecian phraseology, and an unmeaning length of 
period, which perplexes and disgusts. As a writer, his 
merit is not great: but, if we consider the barbarism of 
the preceding generation, and the difficulties with which 
he was surrounded, we cannot refuse him the praise of 
genius, resolution, and industry.” 

None of his vernacular productions is extant. His chief 
surviving works consist of two treatises in praise of Vir¬ 
ginity: the Be Laudibus Virginilatis, sive de Virginitale 
Sanctorum, is in prose; the other, Be Laudibus Virginum, 


OLD SAXON, OR ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 41 

is written in hexameter verse. These, together with his 
other works, were published in London, in 1842, forming 
Yol. 1. of J. A Giles’s Patres Ecclesice Anglicance ; they 
may also be found in Yol. 89. of Abbe Migne’s Patrologiae 
Cursus Completus, Series Latina. 

YENERABLE BEDE, 673-735 

Yenerable Bede, the most illustrious name in the history 
of science and literature during the eighth century, was 
born in 673. Of his parents nothing has been recorded. 
He tells us, in his own short narrative of himself, that he 
was placed at the age of seven years, under the care of 
Abbot Benedict, in the abbey of Wearmouth, that of 
Yarrow not being yet built. When, however, the second 
establishment was founded, Bede appears to have gone 
thither under Ceolfrid, its first abbot, and to have resided 
there all the remainder of his life. His own words are 
here in point: “All my life I have spent in the same 
monastery, giving my whole attention to the study of the 
Holy Scriptures; and, in the interval between the hours 
of regular discipline and the duties of singing in the 
church, I have always taken pleasure in learning, or teach¬ 
ing, or writing something.” He was eminent as a scholar, 
historian, and divine ; and was remarkable for his probity, 
disinterestedness, and modesty. He has given a list of 
forty-five different works composed by himself, to which 
several others were afterwards added. How great a mas¬ 
ter he was of the Greek language appears from his Ars 
Metrica and other works. His hymns and epigrams are 
lost. All the sciences and every branch of literature were 
handled by him—philosophy, astronomy, arithmetic, the 
calendar, grammar, history, biography, homilies, comments 
on the Scriptures—though works of piety make up the 
4* 


42 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


bulk of his writings. An honest candor and love of trutli 
are so visibly the characteristics of his historical works, 
that, if some austere critics have sometimes suspected him 
of credulity, no man ever called in question his sincerity. 
His Ecclesiastical History of the Anglo-Saxons is, to this 
day, a leading authority not for the annals of the Church 
only; but for all the public events that occurred in the 
earlier part of the Anglo-Saxon period. The style is easy 
and perspicuous ; and, though far inferior to that of the 
great masters of antiquity, it may justly claim higher praise 
than other specimens of the time. Bede was a great man 
for the age in which he lived: he would have been a great 
man, had he lived in any other age. Bishop Tanner, an 
eminent antiquary, gives this character of him : “ He was 
a prodigy of learning in an unlearned age, whose erudition 
we can never cease admiring. If we think that he some¬ 
times failed in his judgment or by credulity, when we take 
a view of all his writings together, we shall confess that he 
alone is a library, and a treasure of all the arts. 77 

During his last illness, he had undertaken an Anglo- 
Saxon translation of the Gospel of St. John, which he 
continued till a few moments before his death. The inter¬ 
esting scene of his last hours is thus described by his dis¬ 
ciple Cuthbert: u He passed the remainder of the day in 
prayer and conversation till evening, when his scribe again 
interrupted him, saying : ‘ Dear Master, there is yet one 
sentence not written. 7 Bede told him to write quickly, and 
he dictated a few words, when the youth exclaimed : ‘ It 

is now done ! 7 ‘ Thou hast well said, 7 answered Bede, ‘ It 

is done! Support my head with thy hands, for I desire to 
sit facing the holy place in which I was wont to pray. 
There let me invoke my Heavenly Father. 7 And thus on 
the "floor of his cell, chanting the Gloria Patri, he had 
just strength enough to proceed to the end of the phrase, 


OLD SAXON, OR ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 43 

when he breathed out his soul with his last words (Spiritui 
Sancto) on his lips.” He died in 735, and was buried at 
Yarrow. The following’ epitaph was placed on his tomb : 

“ Presbiter hie Beda requiescat carne sepultus. 

Dona, Christe, animam in coelis gaudere per aevum ; 

Daque illi sopliiae debriari fonte, cui jam 
Suspiravit ovans intento semper amore.” 

Translation. 

Not as the opening bud, but laden bough, 

Here sainted Bede, the priest and sage, lies low. 

Grant him, O Lord, now that his task is done, 

Eternal joys, through Thy beloved Son ; 

For endless ages, filled with heavenly love, 

His thirst allay at Wisdom’s fount above. 

His works have been printed at Paris, Basel, Cologne; 
and lately in England, in 1843 and ’41, by the learned Dr. 
J. A. Giles, 12 vols. 8vo. 

St. Augustine’s Arrival in Kent, a. d. 597. 

(From the Ecclesiastical History.) 

As soon as they [St. Augustine and his missionaries] entered 
the dwelling-place assigned them, they began to initiate the 
course of life practised in the primitive Church ; applying themt- 
selves to frequent prayer, watching, and fasting; preaching the 
Word of Life to as many as they could ; despising all worldly 
things as not belonging to them; receiving only their necessary 
food from those they taught; living themselves in all respects 
conformably to what they prescribed to others ; and being all 
disposed to suffer any adversity and even to die for that truth 
which they preached. In short, several believed and were bap¬ 
tized, admiring the simplicity of their innocent life, and the 
sweetness of their heavenly doctrine. There was, on the east 
side of the city, a-church dedicated to the honor of St. Martin, 
built whilst the Komans wore still in the island, wherein the 
queen, who, as has been said before, was a Christian, used to 


44 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


pray. In this they first began to meet, to sing, to pray, to say 
mass, to preach, and to baptize, till the king, being converted to 
the faith, allowed them to preach openly, and build and repair 
churches in all places. 

When he, among the rest, induced by the unspotted life of these 
holy men, and their delightful promises, which, by many mira¬ 
cles, they proved to be most certain, believed and was baptized, 
greater numbers began daily to flock together to hear the Word, 
and, forsaking the heathen rites, to associate themselves, by be¬ 
lieving, to the unity of the Church of Christ. 

Their conversion the king so far encouraged, as ho compelled 
none to embrace Christianity ; but only showed more affection to 
the believers, as to his fellow-citizens in the heavenly kingdom. 
For he had learned from his instructors and leaders to salvation, 
that the service of Christ ought to be voluntary, not by compul¬ 
sion. Nor was it long before he gave his teachers a settled resi¬ 
dence in his metropolis of Canterbury, with such possessions of 
different kinds as were necessary for their subsistence. 


ALCUIN, 735-804. 

Alcuin is the most distinguished of those Anglo-Saxons 
whose name shed lustre on the empire of the Frankish 
monarch in the eighth century. He was born at York or 
in its vicinity, about the year 735, of a noble family; and, 
when scarcely weaned from his mother’s breast, he was 
dedicated to the Church. On reaching the proper age, 
he was placed in the school of Archbishop Egbert at 
York, then celebrated for the number of noble youths who 
crowded thither to imbibe instruction from the lips of that 
learned prelate. In 781, whilst on a visit to the continent 
iu search of books and new discoveries in science, Alcuin 
was induced to take up his residence in France and become 
the friend and counsellor of Charlemagne, who was then 
meditating the foundation of scholastic institutions through¬ 
out his dominions. To secure the benefit of Alcuin’s in- 


OLD SAXON, OR ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 


45 


structions, Charlemagne established at his court a school 

—called Palatina, because it was kept at his palace_ 

which seems to have been the origin of the University of 
Paris. He joined to it a sort of academy, each member of 
which borrowed the name of some personage of antiquity : 
Charlemagne had the name of David; Alcuin, that of 
Flaccus, from Horace; and Angilbert, son-in-law to Char¬ 
lemagne, that of Homer. 

Indeed most of the schools in France were either founded 
or improved by Alcuin.* In *796 he established the school 
in the abbey of St. Martin of Tours, after the plan adopted 
at York ; and at Aix-la-Chapelle he erected another: thus 
did he greatly assist the revival of letters in the vast do¬ 
minions of this prince. As he advanced in years, he grew 
weary of the honors he enjoyed, and took leave of court in 
801. His abbey of St. Martin’s was selected for the place 
of his retreat; but he kept up a constant correspondence 
with Charles to the time of his death in 804. His nu¬ 
merous charities excited the applause and gratitude of the 
inhabitants of Tours ; and a hospital, which he founded 
for the reception of the poor and of travellers, was long 
preserved under the tuition of his successors, the abbots of 
St. Martin’s. 


*A German poet, cited by Camden, thus extols the merit of Alcuin in 
introducing literature into France: 

“ Quid non Alcuino, facunda Lutetia, debes ! 
Instauratur bonas ibi qui feliciter artes, 

Barbariemque procul solus depellere coepit.” 

Translation. 

“ Let Gallia’s sons, nurtur’d in ancient lore, 

To Alcuin’s name a grateful tribute pay; 

’Tvvas his, the light of science to restore, 

And bid barbaric darkness flee away.” 



46 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


The pen of Alcuin was seldom idle. For the use of his 
pupils he wrote, iu the form of dialogues, elementary trea¬ 
tises on most of the sciences; and compiled, at the solicita¬ 
tion of his friends, the lives of several eminent men. His 
letters are numerous, and will be read with interest from 
the fidelity with which they describe the views, manners, 
and employment of the most distinguished characters of 
the age. Like Bede, he wrote comments on several books 
of Scripture ; and occasionally he proved his devotion to 
the Muses by the composition of smaller poems. His 
moral works breathe a sincere piety; his doctrine on all 
points of faith is most pure, and he let slip no opportunity 
of exerting his zeal in its defence. His style, however, is 
not pleasing, being overloaded with useless words, common 
thoughts, and affected ornaments. “ Alcuin,” says Feller, 
“ had more genius than taste, more erudition than elegance ; 
and he was more fluent than eloquent.” Nevertheless his 
works are much esteemed, and he is acknowledged as the 
most learned and polished man of his time. 

The best edition of his works was given in 16It, by the 
learned Andrew Duchesne, who is styled the Father of 
French History. 

We subjoin the following address of Alcuin to his cell, 
on quitting it for the world : 


O mea cella, mihi liabitatio dulcis amata, 

Semper in aeternum, 0 mea cella, vale ! 
Undique te cingit ramis resonantibus arbos, 
Silvula florigeris semper onusta cornis. 
Flumina te cingunt florentibus undique ripis, 
Ketia piscator qua sua tendit ovans. 

Pomiferis redolent ramis tua claustra per hortos, 
Lilia cum rosulis Candida mixta rubris. 

Omne genus volucrum matutinas personat odas, 
Atque creatorem laudat in ore Deum. 


OLD SAXON, OR ANGLO SAXON PERIOD. 4t 

Translation .* 

O my loved cell, sweet dwelling of my soul, 

Must I forever say, 1 Dear spot, farewell! ’ 

Hound thee their shades the sounding branches spread, 

A little wood with flowering honors gay; 

The blooming meadows wave their healthful herbs, 

Which hands experienced cull to serve mankind. 

By thee, mid flowery banks, the waters glide, 

Where the glad fishermen their nets extend ; 

Thy gardens shine with apple-bending boughs, 

Where the white lilies mingle with the rose ; 

Their morning hymns the feathered tribes resound, 

And warble sweet their great Creator’s praise. 


ALFRED THE GREAT, 849-901. 

Among the writers of the ninth century, a distinguished 
1 place should be given to King Alfred the Great, who in 
• 871 succeeded his brother Ethelred I. on the throne of 
I England. When only in his fifth year he was sent to 
Rome, to be crowned by the pontiff Leo IV.; and after- 
I wards he accompanied his father on a pilgrimage to the 
apostolic city. His mother, Osburga, had the merit of 
awakening in the mind of Alfred that passion for learning, 
for which he stands so conspicuous among his contempo¬ 
raries. Holding in her hand a Saxon poem, elegantly 
written and beautifully illuminated, she offered it as a re¬ 
ward to the first of her children whose proficiency should 
enable him to read it. The emulation of Alfred was 
excited: he ran to his master, applied to the task with 
diligence, performed it to the satisfaction of the Queen, 
and received the prize of his industry. 


* In Turner’s Ilist. Anglo-Saxons. 







48 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Being called to the throne by the unanimous voice of the 
West Saxons, Alfred succeeded in conquering the Danes, 
whose invasions had rapidly accelerated the decline of 
learning in the Saxon States; and crowned his victories 
by framing just laws, establishing juries, civilizing the 
people, and resuscitating the arts, sciences, and belles- 
lettres in his kingdom. With the assistance of distin¬ 
guished scholars of his own and foreign countries, whom 
he invited to his court, he began, in his thirty-ninth year, 
to apply to the study of Roman literature; and opened 
schools in different places for the instruction of his sub¬ 
jects. King Alfred was greatly indebted to the counsels 
of St. Neot, his spiritual director, for the advancement of 
useful and sacred studies. Our historians agree that a 
plan for the general study of sciences and liberal arts, 
was laid by this holy anchoret; and after this plan 
Alfred is said to have founded a school which, in the 
course of time, grew to be the University of Oxford. It 
was his will that the children of every freeman whose 
circumstances would allow it, should acquire the elemen¬ 
tary arts of reading and writing; and that those who were 
designed for civil or ecclesiastical employments, should 
moreover be instructed in the Latin language. It was 
a misfortune which the king frequently lamented, that 
Saxon literature contained no books of sciences. “ I have 
often wondered,” says he, “that the illustrious scholars, 
who once flourished among the English, and who had read 
so many foreign works, never thought of transferring the 
most useful into their own language.” To supply this 
deficiency, Alfred himself undertook the task. 

His writings, besides a code of laws which he composed, 
comprise translations into Anglo-Saxon of Bede’s Eccle¬ 
siastical History; of Pope Gregory’s Pastoral Care, a 
work recommended both by its own excellence and the 


OLD SAXON, OR ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 49 

reputation of its author} of the Universal History of 
Orosius, the best epitome of ancient history then extant; 
of parts of the Bible; of the Soliloquies of St. Augustine, 
and of the Consolation of Philosophy by Boethius, a trea¬ 
tise deservedly held in high reputation at that period, a 
copy of which he constantly carried about him. 

The manner in which he regulated his time, enabled 
him to give due attention to every thing—business, study, 
and prayer. He divided the twenty-four hours into three 
equal parts: one for exercises of piety; the second for 
sleep and necessary refreshments; and the third, for the 
duties of his station. Sir Henry Spelman, the celebrated 
English antiquary and philologist, says of him in a rapture: 
“ 0 Alfred, the wonder and astonishment of all ages! If 
we reflect on his piety and religion, it would seem that he 
had always lived in a cloister; if on his warlike exploits, 
that he had never been out of camps; if on his learning 
and writings, that he had spent his whole life in a college ; 
if on his wholesome laws and wise administration, that 
these had been his whole study and employment.*” 

England, before his time barbarous and agitated by 
continual troubles, became under him an abode of peace 
and justice. This great monarch died in the year 901, 
deeply regretted by his people who revered him as a hero, 
statesman, and saint. Never before did prince display 
more affability to his subjects, or more valor against his 
enemies; and never perhaps has a more striking proof 
been given of what religion, in both king and people, can 
effect for the glory and prosperity of a nation. 


♦The ingenious Gaillard, in his History of the Rivalship of France and 
England, after comparing Alfred with Charlemagne, and giving the prefer¬ 
ence in every thing to Alfred, concludes with this curious eulogium : 

“In him [Alfred] we have an exception to the trite distich: 

Si nisi non esset, perfectus quilibet esset; 

Et non sunt visi, qui caruere nisi." 


5 





50 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


We give the following as a specimen of Anglo-Saxon 
prose, taken from his Introduction to the Translation of 
St. Gregory's Pastorale: 


For thi me thingth betere gif 
geow swa thinetb, that we eac 
sume bee tha themed bethyr 
fysta syn eallum mannum to 
witanne, that we tha on that 
ge-theode wendon the we ealle 
ge cnawen msegen, and ge-don 
swa we swithe eathe magon mid 
Godes fultome gif we tha styl- 
nesse habbath, that call seo 
geoguth the nu is on Angel- 
eynne freora manna, thara the 
tha speda hasbben, that hi tham 
bcfeolan msegan syn to leor- 
nunga oth fieste, tha hwile the 
hi nanre otherre note ne msegen, 
oth fyrst the hi wel cunnen 
Englise gewrit aroedan. Lsere 
mon siththan furthor on Leden 
ge-theode, tha the man furthor 
lgeran wille, and to herran hade 
don wille. 


Therefore it seems to me bet¬ 
ter, if it seems so to you, that 
we also, some books that be 
deemed most needful for all men 
to know, that we translate them 
into that language that we all 
can understand, and cause, as 
we very easily may with God's 
help, if we have leisure, that all 
the youth that is now in the 
English nation of freemen, those 
that have wealth to maintain 
themselves, may be put to learn¬ 
ing, the while they can employ 
themselves on nothing else, till 
first they can read well English 
writing. Afterwards let people 
teach further in the Latin 
tongue those whom they will 
teach further and raise to a 
higher degree. 


iELFRIC, THE GRAMMARIAN, d. 1006. 

After Alfred, the most important name is that of iElfric 
or Alfric, archbishop of Canterbury, who died in 1006. 
He is said to have been descended from a noble family, 
and to have ruled his diocese with equity and vigor, during 
a period of great public calamity from the inroads of the 
Danes. This learned prelate was a voluminous writer, and, 
like Alfred, manifested a strong desire to enlighten the 
people. He wrote much in his native tongue, particularly 
three books of Homilies; a translation of the first seven 
books of the Bible, and some religious treatises. He was 


OLD SAXON, OR ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 


51 


the author of a Latin-Saxon Grammar , which gave him 
the surname of Grammarian ; also of a Glossary of Latin 
words most commonly used in conversation; and of the 
Colloquium, a conversation in Latin, with an interlinear 
Saxon gloss. He himself tells us that he avoided the use 
of all obscure words, in order that he might be better 
understood by the people. 

(From the Paschal Homily.) 

Ilsethen cild bith ge-fullod, ac hit ne brset na hishivv with-utan, 
A heathen child is christened, yet he altereth not his shape without, 
dheah dhe hit beo with-innan awend. Hit bith ge-broht synfull 
dhurh 

though he be within changed. He is brought sinful through 
Adames forggegednyssc to tham fant fate. Ac hit bith athwogen 
fram 

Adam’s disobedience to the font-vessel. But he is washed from 
eallum synnum with-innan, dheah dhe hit with-utan his liiw ne 
awende. 

all sins inwardly, though he outwardly does not change his 
shape. 

Eac swylce the halige fant waeter, dhe is ge-liaten lifes wyl-spring, 
is ge-lic 

Even so the holy font-water, which is called life’s fountain, is 
like 

on hi we adhrum waeterum, and is under dheod brosnunge ; ac 
dhaes halgan gastes 

in shape (to) other waters, and is subject to corruption ; but the 
Holy Ghost’s 

miht ge-nealaecth tham brosnigendlicum waetere, dhurh sacerda 
blestsunge, 

might come (to) the corruptible water through (the) priest’s 
blessing, 

& hit mseg sythan lichaman & sawle athwean fram allum synnum, 
dhurh 

and it may afterwards body and soul wash from all sin, through 
gastlice might, 
ghostly might. 




52 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


(From the Colloquium .) 

The following is a colloquy between master and scholars : 

1. D. We cildree biddath the, eala Lareow, thset thu tsece us 

sprecan 

2. Nos pueri rogamus te, Magister, lit doceas nos loqui 

3. We children beseech thee, O Master, that thou teach us 

to speak 

1 on Ledem rihte, fortham ungelaerede we syndon, and 

2 Latialiter recte, quia idiotae sumus et 

3 in Latin rightly, because unlearned we are and 

1. gewsemmodlice we sprecath. 

2. corrupte loquiinur. 

3. badly we speak. 

M. 1 Hwset wille ge sprecan ? 

2 Quid vultis loqui ? 

3 What wish ye to speak ? 

D. 1 Hwret rece we hwset we sprecon, buton het riht sprsec sy, 
and 

2 Quid euramus quid loquamur, nisi recta locutio sit, et 

3 What care we what we speak, unless it be right speech, and 

1 behefe, nges idel oththe fraeod ? 

2 utilis, non anilis aut turpis ? 

3 useful, not idle or shameful ? 

M. 1 Wille go boon beswungen on leornunge ? 

2 Yultis flagellari in discendo ? 

3 Will ye be whipped in learning ? 

I). 1 Lcofre ys us .beon beswungen for lare, thonne hit ne cun- 
nan ; ac 

2 Carius est nobis flagellari pro doctrina, quam nescire; sed 

3 It is more pleasing to us to be whipped for learning, than 

not to know ; but 

1 we witon the bile-witne wesan, and nellan on-belsedan 

swingla 

2 scimus te mansuetum esse, et nolle inferre plagas 

3 we know thee to be kind, and unwilling to inflict a whip¬ 

ping 

1 us, buton thu beo to-gcnydd fram us. 

2 nobis, nisi eogaris a nobis. 

3 on us, unless thou be forced by us. 





OLD SAXON, OR ANGLO-SAXON PERIOD. 


53 


Other writings—General characteristics. 

We are far from having mentioned all the literary pro¬ 
ductions of this period. Many, indeed, have perished 
either by accident or by the excesses of fanaticism. 
During the reigns of Henry VIII. and his successor, when 
monasteries were suppressed and the old religion of 
England was bitterly persecuted, entire libraries, procured 
by the incessant toil of the monks for ages, were utterly 
destroyed: not even the libraries of the two. great univer¬ 
sities were spared. Precious monuments of English 
antiquity disappeared, but we can never know the amount 
of the irreparable loss then sustained.* Entire or frag¬ 
mentary works of about fifty Anglo-Saxon authors still 
remain, many of them as yet unpublished. Among the 
prose writings are found laws, charters, and the very 
valuable Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. This extends from the 
middle of the sixth to the middle of the twelfth, and was 
written by contemporaneous authors, chiefly monks of 
Winchester, Peterborough, and Canterbury. 

Both the prose and the poetry of this period were evi¬ 
dently the productions of men who sought to raise the charac¬ 
ter of the people and to improve their condition: practical 
and moral are the epithets that best describe them both. 

♦See farther details in Alban Butler’s Lives of the Saints, May 2Gth, St. 
Augustine, note. 


5 * 






54 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


SECOND PERIOD. 

SEMI-SAXON, OR TRANSITION PERIOD, 106G-1250. 

(From the Norman invasion to the middle of the reign 
of Henry III.) 

The Normans.—The Battle of Hastings and the begin¬ 
ning of the Norman dynasty.—Influence of the 
Norman-French on the mother tongue .— The Trou- 
veres and the Troubadours .— The Semi-Saxon lan¬ 
guage.—The Crusades.—Effects of the preservation 
of the Latin language .— The Monasteries.—Ancient 
Libraries.—Curriculum of a liberal Education .— 
Academical Degrees .— The Scholastic Method .— 
Privileges of the Universities.—Slate of the English 
language in the early part of the 13tli century .— 
Lanfranc. — St. Anselm.—John of Salisbury. — His¬ 
torians and Rhyming Chroniclers. — Layamon. 

The Normans. 

At the era that we have reached, the Normans ranked 
among the most polished and warlike nations of Europe. 
For their rapid advancement in civilization, they owed 
much to the wisdom and justice of their princes ; but still 
more to the influence of the Christian religion, which 
softened the ferocity of their manners, led them to cultivate 
the useful and ornamental arts, and opened to their inves¬ 
tigations the stores of ancient literature. Although the 
principles of a rude chivalry and a poetical belief in the 
marvellous remained as relics of the old northern my¬ 
thology; these were gradually purified and refined by the 



SEMI-SAXON, OR TRANSITION PERIOD. 55 

humanizing tendencies of the faith which they had ardently 
embraced. Their chivalrous and martial spirit followed 
them into England, as, some years later, it accompanied 
them in their dauntless expeditions to the Holy Land. 


The Battle op Hastings and the Beginning of the 
Norman Dynasty. 

Edward the Confessor having died without issue in 
1066, two distinguished aspirants asserted their right to 
the throne of England: Harold, son of Count Godwin; 
and William, Duke of Normandy. Their claims were 
decided on the battle-field of Hastings, where Harold fell, 
pierced by an arrow. Upon the hill on which perished the 
last of the Saxon kings, William built a beautiful and rich 
abbey, the Abbey of the Battle, in obedience to a vow 
which he had made to St. Martin, patron of the Gallic 
soldiers. Thus did the Norman influence, which was first 
felt under Canute, who married a Norman wife, and was 
strengthened by Edward the Confessor, who had received 
his education at the Norman Court, at length attain its 
full ascendency. The foreign yoke, however, was borne 
with impatience by the native population, who, after 
repeated unsuccessful risings, sank in despair and yielded 
to the stern and humiliating exactions of their new 
masters. 

Influence of the Norman-French on tiie mother 
tongue. 

As soon as William had made his tenure sure, he began 
the work of extirpating the Saxon language, by ordering 
that the elements of grammar should be taught in the 
French language; that the Saxon alphabetical characters 


56 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


should be abandoned as barbarous; and all deeds, plead¬ 
ing's in courts, and laws, should be in French. Saxon 
then fell into contempt; and those of the old race who 
were more politic than patriotic, set to work vigorously to 
acquire the favorite tongue of the nobility and higher 
classes. Those who* had some pretensions to education, 
took pride in speaking ‘the Frensche of Paris.’ And so 
firm a footing had it acquired at court aud elsewhere, that 
the Picard trouvere, who recited his poem at the tomb of 
St. Thomas of Canterbury, could boast a hundred years 
later: 

“ Mes languages est buens car en France fui nez.” 

The Trouveres and the Troubadours. 

The song of the minstrels was one of the earliest literary 
importations from both the northern and the southern dis¬ 
tricts of France. The minstrels of the northern districts 
were called Trouveres; those south of the river Loire, 
Troubadours —words that are evidently only dialectical 
forms of the same name, the Langue d^oyl and the Langue 
d J oc being substantially the same language. The poetry 
of the Trouvbres, who cultivated the Walloon Romance, 
the mother of the modern French, was mostly epic, des¬ 
cribing the fabulous exploits of the Knights of the Round 
Table, of Amadis, and of Charlemagne. The poetry of 
the Troubadours, was chiefly lyric comprising amatory 
songs or dialogues known by the name of Tensons. 

The Semi Saxon Language. 

Still the mother tongue could not be trampled out. The 
disorganization and decay which were discoverable in it, 
contained the seeds of life, and an idiom sprung up called 


SEMI-SAXON, OR TRANSITION PERIOD. 5f 

the Semi-Saxon, that is to say, an unsettled, varying form 
of speech differing in many respects from the old Saxon, 
but not so determined or complete as to constitute as yet a 
new language. This confused state of the vernacular was 
as perplexing to those who used it for the purposes of 
writing or speech, as it is now to those who are endeavoring 
to trace its vicissitudes. 

The substance of the changes is admitted, on all hands, 
to have consisted in the suppression of those grammatical 
intricacies occasioned by the inflections of nouns, the 
seemingly arbitrary distinctions of gender, the government 
of prepositions, the variations of declensions and conjuga¬ 
tions ;—and of whatever seemed to admit of being neglected 
without injury to the meaning of the speaker or writer. 

The Crusades. 

To the student this period presents little of merely 
literary interest, partly on account of internal civil dissen¬ 
sions, and the hostilities of the rival sovereigns of France 
and England; partly on account of the eventful and pro¬ 
tracted struggles which, for two hundred years, continued 
to agitate the Christian world, and which are known by 
the name of the Crusades. These religious military expe¬ 
ditions had for object the delivery of Jerusalem and Pales¬ 
tine from the oppressive yoke of the Mahometans, and the 
placing of an effectual barrier against the infidel and bar¬ 
barous hordes that threatened to overrun and destroy all 
Christendom. Whatever may be thought of the expe¬ 
diency of the Crusades, it is certain that they were 
prompted by motives of honor, humanity, and religion ; 
and that they exercised a very great and salutary influence 
on the political, intellectual, and natural development of 
Europe. 



58 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Eefects of the Preservation of the Latin 
Language. 

Under the circumstances of a half-developed vernacular, 
in the several countries of Europe during the middle ages, 
a common idiom was indispensable not only for ecclesiasti¬ 
cal, educational, and scientific purposes; but likewise for 
transacting the ordinary business of government. “ This,” 
says Frederick Schlegel, “was the invaluable link uniting 
the mediaeval and modern world with the ancient. The 
Latin language was the depository of all learning, until 
the plebeian dialect, the Romanic, adapting itself to local 
genius and the influence of circumstances grew to be a 
separate and distinct idiom. Had not the Latin been 
adopted by the Church, whilst the new tongues were grad¬ 
ually developing and settling into form, the world would 
have been dark indeed. How little would have reached us 
of the thought, life, or events of that period ? ” “ If it be 

demanded,” says Hall am,* “ by what cause it happened, 
that a few sparks of ancient learning survived throughout 
this long winter, we can only ascribe their preservation to 
the establishment of Christianity. Religion alone made a 
bridge, as it were, across the chaos, and has linked the two 
periods of ancient and modern civilization. Without this 
connecting principle, Europe might indeed have awakened 
to intellectual pursuits ; but the memory of Greece aud 
Rome would have been feebly preserved by tradition,— 
and the monuments of those nations might have excited, 
on the return of civilization, that vague sentiment of specu¬ 
lation and wonder with which men now contemplate Per- 
sepolis or the Pyramids. The sole hope for literature 
depended on the Latin language ; and I do not see why 


♦Middle Ages, p. 4G1. 



' SEMI-SAXON, OR TRANSITION PERIOD. 59 

that should not have been lost, if three circumstances in 
the prevailing religious system had not conspired to main¬ 
tain it: the papal supremacy, the monastic institutions, 
and the use of the Latin liturgy.” To the praise of 
the popes, it must be said, that, even in the middle ages, 
they were attentive to the interests of learning. The first 
schools had been established in monasteries and cathedrals 
by the zeal of their respective prelates; that they were 
perpetuated and improved, was owing to the regulations 
issued by different pontiffs. “ From the fifth to the twelfth 
century,” says Archbishop Spalding,* “ an all-conquering, 
and glorious because bloodless and humanizing, invasion 
rolled from the South to the North, in compensation for 
the all-destroying invasion which had rolled from the North 
to the South. Thus Christian Rome nobly avenged the 
disasters which had overthrown the imperial city of the 
Caesars : she repaid evil with good, and scattered unutter¬ 
able blessings among those who had brought ruin to her 
hearth-stone, and her once pagan altars.” 

The Monasteries. 

It is a fact worthy of note in the history of letters, that 
the monks in the various monasteries of England silently 
and patiently recorded the events, civil and religious, of 
their times ; and that their labors, at least such as have 
been rescued from the ravages of the past, form the only 
true materia historica of modern writers. Scarcely any 
other country in Europe possesses such a historical treasure 
as the Saxon Chronicle , so authentic and so characteristic. 
It is a faithful picture of the manners, the thoughts, the 
joys, the sorrows of the most interesting and important 


* Hist, of the Prot. Refor. 




60 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


period in the history of England, as if the life itself of the 
nation, with its characters and incidents, were made to 
pass before our eyes in a rapid panorama.* 

In depreciating the middle ages, it has been customary 
to string together the most contradictory objections. 
“ Latin mediaeval history,” says Fred. Schlegel f “gen¬ 
erally went by the contemptuous appellation of monkish 
chronicles, composed as they were by the clergy of the 
time. In adopting this opprobrious term, people seem to 
ignore the fact that the historians thus libelled were for 
the most part of high birth, conversant with state secrets, 
and generally speaking well-informed men, and the best 
educated of their day. If clerical degeneracy were the 
subject of complaint, it was asserted that the clergy admin¬ 
istered extensive rule, fared as sumptuously as princes, and 
directed the helm of State. 'But if their works were 
criticized, it was alleged that they were ignorant monks, 
unacquainted with the world, and manifestly unfit to write 
history. In truth, the position of these authors was the 
very beau-ideal of literary condition most calculated to 
combine the elements of success. For, whilst they had 
ample opportunities of knowing the realities of life, by 
mingling in its scenes, they had also the requisite indepen¬ 
dence and leisure for the privacy and dispassionate judg¬ 
ment of the closet.” 

Ancient Libraries. 

The art of printing not being yet known, each monastery 
had its Scriptorium for those who were employed in 
transcribing books, an occupation, in which the majority of 
the monks were engaged during the hours allotted to 


Dublin University Magazine. 


f Hist, of Lit., p. 1G7. 




SEMI-SAXON, OR TRANSITION PERIOD. 61 

manual labor. Each monastery had its library. From 
the writings of Alenin, we learn that there was a renowned 
library at York; and, as it is the earliest recorded collec¬ 
tion of books, and furnishes the first catalogue of an 
English library extant we subjoin a list of the chief works 
it contained. Alcuin says that in this library were the 
works of Jerome, Hilarius, Ambrose, Augustine, Athana¬ 
sius, Gregory, Pope Leo, Basil, Chrysostom, and others. 
Bede and Aldhelm, the native authors, were also here. In 
history and philosophy there were Orosius, Boethius, 
Pompeius, Pliny, Aristotle, and Cicero. In poetry, Sedu- 
lius, Juvencus, Prosper, Arator, Paulinus, Fortunatus, 
Lactantius ; and of the classics, Virgil, Statius, and Lucan. 
Of grammarians, there was a great number, such as 
Probus, Phocas, Donatus, Priscian, Servius, Eutychius, 
and Comminianus. Ingulf tells us that the library of 
Croylaud contained above three hundred volumes, till the 
unfortunate fire that destroyed the Abbey in 1091. The 
academical library of Oxford, in 1300, consisted, according 
to Hallam, of a few tracts kept in chests under St. Mary’s 
Church. The difficulty of procuring books in those times 
may be shown from the fact that, in 1067, the countess of 
Anjou paid for a collection of homilies two hundred sheep, 
a measure of wheat, another of rye, a third of millet, and 
a certain quantity of skins of the marten. 

Curriculum of a liberal Education. 

John of Salisbury gives us in his.writings the most 
complete account that has reached us, not only of the mode 
of study at Paris, but of the entire learning of the age. 
Those branches of literary and scientific knowledge, which 
formed the usual course of education, were considered as 
divided into two great classes,—the first, or more elemen- 
6 


62 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


tary of which, comprehending Grammar, Logic, and 
Rhetoric, was called the Trivium ; the second, compre¬ 
hending Music, Arithmetic, Geometry, and Astronomy, the 
Quadrivium. The seven arts, so classified, used to be 
thus, enumerated in a Latin hexameter : 

Lingua , Tropus , Ratio, Nmnerus, Tonus , Angulus , Astra. 

John of Salisbury speaks of this system of sciences, as 
an ancient one in his day. “ The Trivium and Quad¬ 
rivium,” he says in his work entitled Metalogicus, “ w r ere 
so much admired by our ancestors in former ages, that they 
imagined the seven arts comprehended all wisdom and 
learning, and w r ere sufficient for the solution of all ques¬ 
tions and the removing of all difficulties. For wdioever 
understood the Trivium, could explain all manner of books 
without a teacher ; and he who was farther advanced, and 
was master also of the Quadrivium, could answer all 
questions and unfold all the secrets of nature.” The 
present age, however, had outgrown the simplicity of this 
arrangement; and various new studies had been added to 
the ancient seven, as necessary to complete the circle of 
sciences, and the curriculum of a liberal education. Dr. 
Lingard * observes that it was from the works of the 
Latin writers which had survived the w r reck of the empire, 
that students sought to acquire the principal portion of 
their knowledge; but, in the more abstruse investigations 
of the mathematics, the ancients were believed to be 
inferior to the Mohammedan teachers; and many an 
Englishman, during the reign of Henry I., wandered as 
far as the banks of the Ebro in Spain, that he might listen 
to the instructions and translate the works of the Arabian 
philosophers. Theology, Medicine, Civil and Canon Law, 


♦Hist, of Eng., vol. II. 




SEMI-SAXON, OR TRANSITION PERIOD. 63 

had particular schools. Salerno was the nursery of all the 
Medical Faculties of Europe; Bologna was the chief 
School of Law; Paris, as a place of general instruction, 
stood at the head of all others, and was styled the City of 
Letters. 

Academical Degrees. 

The University comprised the four Faculties of Arts, 
Theology, Law, and Medicine. In the Faculty of Arts, 
there were no other degrees than those of Bachelor and 
Master; whilst in the other Faculties the successful can¬ 
didate, after severe examination, could become bachelors, 
licentiates, and doctors or masters. 

In the University of Paris, none was admitted to the 
course of theology, who had not obtained the degree of 
Master of Arts, that is, the highest degree in the depart¬ 
ment of belles-lettres and philosophy. After three years’ 
attendance to the course of theology and a twofold exam¬ 
ination, the student passed through the ordeal of a public 
thesis during five hours; and, if successful, he was made 
bachelor of theology. To become licentiate, he studied 
one or two years more, after which he had to defend three 
theses, the first during five, the second during ten, and the 
third during twelve hours—from six A. M. till six P. M.— 
being allowed, in the last instance, to take a short meal 
without leaving the room. Finally the defence of another 
thesis was required before the Licentiate could obtain the 
highest degree and wear the Doctor’s cap.* 

The degrees were neither conferred nor received for the 
same end for which they are in modern times. “ Degrees 


♦ “The whole course, from the termination of the grammatical studies to 
the licentiate, extended originally through twenty years; though afterwards 
ft was reduced to ten.”—Dr. J. K. Newman’s Office and Work of Universi¬ 
ties, p. 328. 




G4 BRITISH LITERATURE. 

would not, at that time, be considered mere Jionors or 
testimonials, to be enjoyed by persons who at once left the 
University and mixed in the world. The University would 
only confer them for its own purpose; and to its own sub¬ 
jects, for the sake of its own subjects.” * 

The scholastic method. 

The system adopted in the schools and universities of 
the twelfth and subsequent centuries for the teaching of 
philosophy and theology, is known as the Scholastic 
Method. To define words of an obscure or ambiguous 
meaning;, to analyse and point out the various aspects 
of a question, and determine such as are brought uuder 
immediate discussion; to prove one’s positions by argu^ 
ments drawn in syllogistical form; and finally to solve the 
objections that may be raised by adversaries; these are 
the main features of the scholastic method. Not a few 
writers have inconsiderately attempted to throw discredit 
upon this system. That some of the schoolmen, wander¬ 
ing in a maze of metaphysical subtleties, undertook to 
treat useless, frivolous, and sometimes absurd questions, 
cannot cast a censure upon a method perfectly sound in 
itself, and illustrated by a number of great men, among 
whom St. Thomas, the angel of the schools, stands pre¬ 
eminent. 

Privileges of the Universities. 

It is admitted that it was not until about the year 1200, 
that the school out of which the University of Paris arose, 
had come to subsist as a corporation divided into nations, 
and presided over by a rector. The University of Oxford 


* Dr. J. II. Newman’s Office and Work of Universities, p. 241. 




SEMI-SAXON, OR TRANSITION PERIOD. G5 

is probably of nearly the same antiquity. In the course of 
time, these ancl other learned corporations known as uni¬ 
versities, became possessed of a great number of privileges. 
They were so many little republics that were governed by 
their charter of statutes, their independent jurisdiction, 
their tribunals, <fec. We may here quote one of their 
ancient regulations in illustration of the simplicity of the 
times, and of the small measure of pomp and circumstances 
that the heads of the commonwealth of learning could then 
affect. It is ordered that every master, reading lectures in 
the Factrlty of Arts, should have his cloak or gown round, 
black, and falling as low as the heels—‘at least,’ adds the 
statute with amusing naivete, 1 while it is new.’ There is 
something noble and affecting in the terms in which the 
rector and masters of the Faculty of Arts, express on a 
certain occasion their difficulty to pay for the prosecution 
of a cause in which they were parties—“We,” say they, 
“ whose profession it is to possess no wealth.” 

State of tiie English Language in the early part of 
THE 13tH CENTURY. 

At the beginning of the reign of Henry III. in 1210, 
the English language had made considerable progress, 
although it had not yet supplanted the French at court 
It must be regarded at this period as a harsh, but vigorous 
and expressive idiom, containing in itself the seeds or capa¬ 
bilities of future perfection. We may estimate pretty 
accurately the difference between the pure Anglo-Saxon of 
Alfred’s age, and the Semi-Saxon of the thirteenth century. 
Of foreign words, there were but few in the Semi-Saxon. 
Of the eight thousand words of its printed literature, not' 
one thousand were of Romance or Latin origin. Many, 
however, of the most important Saxon words, ethical and 
6 * 




66 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


mental, had dropped out of use, or had become archaisms. 
The language in its substance was still Saxon; but the 
vocabulary had diminished. The structure of sentences 
was changed, more by the cessation of inflections, than by 
the introduction of new words. “ Nothing can be more 
difficult,” says Hallam, * “ than to determine, except by an 
arbitrary line, the commencement of the English language ; 
not so much, as in those of the continent, because we are 
in want of materials; but rather from an opposite reason, 
the possibility of tracing a very gradual succession of 
verbal changes that ended in a change of denomination. 
Eor, when we compare the earliest English of the thir¬ 
teenth century with the Anglo-Saxon of the twelfth, it 
seems hard to pronounce why it should pass for a separate 
language, rather than a modification or simplification of 
the former. We must conform, however, to usage, and say 
that the Anglo-Saxon was converted into English: 1. by 
contracting or otherwise modifying the pronunciation and 
orthography of words; 2. by omitting many inflections, 
especially of the noun, and consequently making more use 
of auxiliaries; and, 3. by the introduction of articles and 
French derivatives.” 

LAN FRANC, 1005-1089. 

Most productions of the eleventh and the twelfth cen¬ 
tury, at least such as have come down to us, are works com¬ 
posed in Latin by learned ecclesiastics. Of these authors, 
the most distinguished, both in church and state, are Lan- 
franc and St. Anselm. Both of them were brought from 
the famous Abbey of Bee, in Normandy; both were Ital¬ 
ians by birth; and both were raised in succession to the 
see of Canterbury. Lanfranc was for many years professor 


* Lit. of Europe, vol. i., pp. 44 and 45. 






SEMI-SAXON, OR TRANSITION PERIOD. 6? 

of laws at Pavia, his native city. From Pavia he travelled 
into Normandy; and, after teaching with great success, was 
induced from motives of piety to withdraw from the applause 
of the public and sequester himself in the lonely Abbey of 
Bee. William, with the consent of his barons, appointed 
Lanfranc to the archiepiscopal see of Canterbury ; and 
more than once during his absence from England, he 
charged the prelate with the chief care of the government. 
Lanfranc rebuilt the cathedral of Canterbury, which had 
been destroyed by fire, and founded outside of the city two 
opulent hospitals, one for lepers, the other for the infirm. 
He distinguished himself also by the ability with which he 
combated the errors of Berengarius at the council of 
Rome, in 1059. His writings show less of the rudeness of 
the age in which he wrote, and more order, precision, and 
ease, than the other productions of the 11th century. He 
displays a great knowledge of Holy Scripture, of tradition, 
and of canon law. A Commentary on the Epistles of 
St. Paul , a Treatise on the Holy Eucharist, sixty Letters, 
and some Instructions for monks, are the principal among 
the extant works of Lanfranc. lie had written a Life of 
William the Conqueror, which is lost. The venerable 
prelate died in 1089, illustrious for his virtues, and his 
zeal for the maintenance of discipline, the rights of his 
church, and ecclesiastical immunities. 

His works were printed for the first time at Paris, 
in 1648. 

ST. ANSELM, 1033-1109. 

Four years after the demise of Lanfranc, the celebrated 
Anselm, a native of Aosta in Piedmont, arrived in Eng¬ 
land. King William II., who had seized upon the tem¬ 
poralities of Canterbury, being dangerously ill, was induced 
to give the vacant office to Anselm. The reluctant abbot, 


68 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


after a long and violent struggle, yielded to the com¬ 
mands of his superiors, and accepted the dignity of arch¬ 
bishop. 

St. Anselm was conspicuous in an age of great ecclesi¬ 
astics, and he ranks among the Doctors of the Church. 
Mosheim admits that he excelled in dialectics, metaphysics, 
and natural theology, and is the author of the demonstra¬ 
tion of the existence of God, drawn from the innate idea 
which all men have of a being infinitely perfect. He adds 
that St. Anselm was the best moralist of his time, and the 
first that has given a general system or complete body of 
theology.* He is, doubtless, one of those that contributed 
most to give scholastic philosophy its constitutive form. 

The first of his works is the Monologium, or Soliloquy. 
It is divided into seventy-nine chapters, in which he proves 
by arguments drawn from the light of reason alone, without 
recurring to the testimonies of the Sacred Scriptures, that 
there exists a supreme, sovereignly perfect being, who is 
the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; that the reasonable soul 
is made to know and love him, and is the image of him. 
In another work, entitled the Proslogium, or Alloquium, 
he treats of the attributes of God, proving that this 
Supreme Being is all that Faith teaches us: eternal, 
immutable, all-powerful, immense, incomprehensible, just, 
pious, merciful, true, truth, goodness, justice. 

St. Anselm also discussed with great clearness the doc¬ 
trine of the Incarnation, the procession of the Holy Ghost, 
the atonement of the original sin, etc. As to his ascetic 
works they are instructive, edifying, full of unction and of 
a certain tender love of God, which inflames the most insen¬ 
sible hearts. A style simple, natural, concise, clear, forms 
the principal merit of his Letters. 


* Eccl. Hist, of the eleventh cent. Part II. 



SEMI-SAXON, OR TRANSITION PERIOD. 69 

Like his predecessor in the see of Canterbury, St. Anselm 
contributed much to the diffusion of learning among the 
clergy of England, and exerted his zeal in establishing 
schools and other seminaries of learning in connexion with 
the cathedrals and monasteries, in’all parts of the kingdom. 
He died after a lingering illness in 1109. 

JOHN OF SALISBURY, 1120 (?)-l 182. 

John of Salisbury, a native of Salisbury, was distin¬ 
guished far vivacity of thought and speech, and especially 
for his classical attainments. When quite young, he went 
to Paris, and learned there the elements of dialectics under 
Peter Abelard. After studying for nearly twelve years 
under different masters, he returned to England, was made 
secretary to Theobald, archbishop of Canterbury, and 
continued to hold the same office under his successor, St. 
Thomas a Becket. In 1176, at the recommendation of 
Louis VII. of France, he was appointed bishop of Chartres, 

' where he died in 1182. 

His first work is entitled: The Frivolities of Courtiers 
and the Footsteps of Philosophers—(Polycraticus sive 
de Nugis Curialium et Vestigiis Philosophorum.) The 
courtiers are censured for the vices to which they are so 
liable, and exhorted to the practice of their peculiar 
duties, whilst the lovers of philosophy are taught the 
philosophical doctrines which they should receive and 
follow. 

His second work is the Metalogicus, a prose treatise in 
six books, composed about 1160. He there defends good 
dialectics and true eloquence, against a sophist whom he 
designates by the name of Cornificius. This work contains 
valuable materials for the history of scholastic philosophy 
during the twelfth century. 




BRITISH LITERATURE. 


VO 

John of Salisbury is also the author of a Life of St. 
Thomas a Becket, and a great number of Letters. 

As a writer, John of Salisbury is estimable for his 
great erudition, and for the general correctness of his 
style. But he is reproached with three things: affec¬ 
tation of style, inaccuracy in his reasonings, and a want 
of proper allowance for the difference of times and man¬ 
ners. 

The best edition of his entire works is that of J. A. 
Giles, Oxford, 1848, 5 vols. 8vo. 

The Historians and Rhyming Chroniclers. 

A great number of historians and chroniclers flourished 
in England during this period. All were ecclesiastics, 
most of them monks; some wrote in Semi-Saxon, others in 
French, the greater number in Latin. The first rude 
literary attempts in the vernacular, after the Conquest, 
were either imitations or translations of French pieces, 
principally historical romances. We shall mention only 
the most conspicuous of the historians, or chroniclers. 

William of Malmesbury (1095 (?)—1143 (?) ), the first 
competent historian since the time of Bede, wrote a 
History of the Kings of England , (Historia Regum 
Anglide,) which comes down to the year 1142. 

Henry of Huntingdon was contemporary with William 
of Malmesbury, and, in his History of England , took as 
his literary model the Yenerable Bede, the Father of 
modern history in the West. Henry is rhetorical and 
sometimes diffuse; he has at the same time the tastes of 
an antiquary, and the heart of a thorough Englishman. 
He delights in those old Saxon chronicles and poems 
which the polished Latinists of the twelfth century gen¬ 
erally regarded as beneath their notice; and he actually 


SEMI SAXON, OR TRANSITION PERIOD. 71 

took the trouble to translate into Latin prose the war-song 
on the battle of Brunanburg, which he found in the Saxon 
Chronicle. 

Geoffrey of Monmoutii, who lived about the same 
time, is the author of a well known fabulous History of 
the Britons , (Historia Britonum,) from which the romance 
writers drew the materials for their poems about Arthur 
and the Knights of the Round Table. Dayton reproduces 
much of it in his Polyolbion * ; and it has given occasion 
to many allusions in the poetry of Spenser, Shakespeare, 
Milton, and Tennyson. 

Wace, an Anglo-Norman poet, (1112-1184,) wrote in 
his native French a narrative poem, entitled Boman de 
Brut d'Angleterre. The chief hero was an imaginary son 
of JEneas of Troy, named Brutus, who was represented as 
having founded the State of Britain many centuries before 
the Christian era. The materials of this poem were 
taken from the History of the Britons by Geoffrey of 
Monmouth. 

Layamon, a priest living in Worcestershire, may be 
regarded as the first of a series of writers known by the 
appellation of rhyming chroniclers. He produced, at the 
close of the twelfth century, a Semi-Saxon imitation, or 
free translation, of Wace’s Brut. His verse-history is the 
earliest poem of great magnitude in the English language, 
and extends to about sixteen thousand lines of four accents 
each. It has both alliteration and rhyme though of a rude 
description. 


*The Polyolbion is a poem of thirty thousand lines, giving a topographical 
delineation of England, and composed with such accuracy and fulness of 
legendary and other learning, that it is quoted as an authority by English 
antiquaries. This work appeared partly in 1613, and partly in 1622. 




72 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Speaking of himself as an author, Layamon thus writes 


Ho wonede at Ernleie 
Wid than gode cnihte, 
Uppen Severne; 

Merie ther him thohte; 
Faste bi Radistone, 

Ther heo bokes radde. 

Hit com him on mode, - 
And on his thonke, 

That he wolde of Engelond 
The rihtnesse telle; 

Wat the men i-hote wercn, 
And wancne hi comen, 

The Englene lond 
iErest afden 
After than flode, 

That fram God com ; 

That al ere acwilde 
Cwic that hit funde, 

Bot Noe and Sem, 

Japhet and Camn, 

And here four wiles, 

That mid ham there weren. 


He dwelt at Ernley, 

With the good knight, 

Upon the Severn; 

Pleasant there it seemed to him 
Close by Radistone 
There he books read. 

It came into his mind, 

And in his thought, 

That he would of England 
The exact story tell; 

What the men were called, 
And whence they came, 

The English land 
First to occupy 
After the flood, 

That from God came, 

That destroyed all here 
Alive that was found 
Except Noe and Sem, 

Japhet and Cam [Ham], 

And their four wives 
That were with them there. 


OLD ENGLISH, OH EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 


73 


THIRD PERIOD. 

OLD ENGLISH, OR EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 

1250-1350. 

(From the middle of the reign of Henry III. to the 

MIDDLE OF THE REIGN OF EDWARD III.) 

Old English.—Proclamation of Henry III.—Rhyming 

Chroniclers: Robert of Gloucester; Robert Mannyng. 

•—Minor Poems.—Roger Bacon. 

Old English. 

The numerous changes in orthography and grammatical 
arrangement, which had given a more marked character to 
the language, have caused the name of Old English to be 
assigned to that period of reconstruction which may bo 
considered as extending from the middle of the thirteenth 
to the middle of the fourteenth century. The title of Old 
English is sufficiently justified by the archaisms which dis¬ 
tinguish it from modern English. To this period belongs' 
what many English philologists regard as the first specimen 
of English as contradistinguished from Semi-Saxon, viz. 
the short Proclamation issued by Henry III. in the year 
1258. Its real importance arises chiefly from the fact, that 
it is one of the few specimens of the English of that cen¬ 
tury, the date of which is positively known. Although it 
was addressed to the people of Huntingdon, copies of it 
were sent for public promulgation to every shire in England. 
It may therefore be considered as the best evidence exist¬ 
ing of the condition of the English language at any fixed 
date in the thirteenth century. 

7 



BRITISH LITERATURE. 


14 

Proclamation of Henry III., a. d. 1258. 


Henr 7 , thurg Godes fultume 
King on Engleneloande, lhoa- 
verd on Irloand, duk 7 on Norm’, 
on Aquitain 7 , and eorl on An- 
iow, send igretinge to all hise 
halde ilaerde and ilaewede on 
Huntendon 7 schir. 7 

Tkaet witen ge wel alle, thaet 
we willen and unnen, thaet 
thaet ure raedesmen alle other 
'the moare dael of heom, thaet 
booth ichosen thurg us and thurg 
thaet loandes folk on ure kune- 
riehe, habbeth idon and schul- 
len don in the worthnesse of 
Gode and on ure treowthe for 
the freme of the loande thurg 
the besigte of than toforeniseide 
redesmen, beo stedefaest and 
ilestinde in alle tliinge a buten 
aende, and we hoaten alle ure 
treowe in the treowthe, that heo 
us ogen, thaet heo stedefaest- 
’liche healden and swerien to 
healden and to werien the iset- 
nesses, thaet beon imakede and 
beon to makien thurg than tofo¬ 
reniseide raedesmen other thurg 
the moare dael of heom alswo 
alse hit is biforen iseid, and 
thaet aehc other helpe thaet for 
to done bi than ilche othe agenes 
alle men, rigt for to done and to 
foangen, and noan ne nime of 
loande ne of egte, wherethurg 
this besigte muge beon ilet other 
iwersed on onie wise and gif oni 


Henry, by God’s grace king 
in (of) England, lord in (of) 
Ireland, duke in (of) Norman- - 
dy, in (of) Aquitaine, and earl 
in (of) Anjou, sends greeting to 
all his lieges, learned and lay, 
in Huntingdonshire. 

This know ye well all, that 
we will and grant that what our 
councillors, all or the greater 
part of them, who are chosen 
by us and by the land’s people 
in our kingdom, have done and 
shall do, to the honour of God 
and in allegiance to us, for the 
good of the land, by the ordi¬ 
nance of the aforesaid council¬ 
lors, be stedfast and permanent 
in all things, time without end, 
and we command all our true 
men by the faith that they owe 
us, that they steadfastly hold, 
and swear to hold and defend 
the regulations that are made 
and to be made by the aforesaid 
councillors, or by the greater 
part of them, as is before said, 
and that each help others this 
to do, by the same oath against 
all men, right to do and to re¬ 
ceive, and that none take of land 
or goods, whereby this ordi¬ 
nance may be let or impaired 
in any wise, and if any one or 
any number transgress here 
against, we will and command 
that all our true men them hold 







OLD ENGLISH, OR EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 


other onie cumen her ongenes, 
we willen and hoaten, thaet alle 
ure treowe heom healden dead- 
liche ifoan, and for thaet we 
willen, thaet this beo stedefaest 
and lestinde, we senden gew 
this writ open iseined with ure 
seel to halden amanges gew ine 
hord. 

Witnesse usselven aet Lun- 
den’ thane egtetenthe day on 
the monthe of Octobr’ in the 
two and *fowertigthe geare of 
ure cruninge. 

And this wes idon aetforen 
ure isworene redesmen : 

[here follow the signatures of 
several redesmen or councillors] 
and aetforen othre moge. 

And al on tho ilche worden 
is isend in to aeurihce othre 
shcire ouer al thaere kuneriche 
on Engleneloande and ek in tel 
Irelonde. 


15 

as deadly foes, and because we 
will that this be stedfast and 
permanent, we send you these 
letters patent sealed with our 
seal, to keep among you in cus¬ 
tody. 


Witness ourself at London 
the eighteenth day in the month 
of October in the two and for¬ 
tieth year of our coronation. 

And this was done before our 
sworn councillors. 

[Signatures] 

and before other nobles [?] 

And all in the same words is 
sent into every other shire over 
all the kingdom in (of) England 
and also into Ireland. 


From M arsh’s Origin and History of the English Language , p. 192. 


RHYMING CHRONICLERS. 

PvObert or Gloucester. 

About 1290, was written the metrical History oj 
England , from Brutus to the death of Henry III., by 
Robert of Gloucester, a monk of Gloucester Abbey. It is 
founded on the histories of Geoffrey of Monmouth and 
William of Malmesbury; and is written in lines of fourteen 
syllables, or of seven accents. It displays but little literary 
skill. The style however is so English, and so different 



76 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


from that of Layamon, a hundred years earlier, that some 
regard this chronicle, as commencing an era in our lan¬ 
guage. The following lines are specimens of the author’s 
manner: 

Engelond ys a wel god lond, ich wene of echo lond best, 

Y set in the ende of the world, as al in the West. 

The see goth hym al a boute, he stont as an yle * * * 

In the contre of Canterbury mest plente of fysch ys. 

And mest chase about Salisburi of wylde bestes y wys. 

At London schip^es mest, and wyn at Wyncestre. 

At Herford schep and orf, and fruyt at Wircestre. 

Sope about Couyntre, yrn at Gloucestre. 

Motel, as led and tyn, in the contre of Excestre. 

Robert Mannyng. 

The rhymed history usually known as the Chronicle of 
Robert Mannyng, a monk of Brunne in Lincolnshire, is 
the most voluminous, as well as the last conspicuous pro¬ 
duction of this period. Of its two parts, the second only 
has been published. It is a version of Peter Langtoft’s 
French metrical chronicle, and ends with the death of 
Edward I. in 1307. 

In his English translation of Grossetete’s Manuel Jes 
P echos, Mannyng protests against all outlandish innova¬ 
tions : “ I seke,” says he, “ no straunge Ynglyss.” 

The following passage is from the opening of the second 
part of his Chronicle , which was composed about the 
year 1330 : 

Lordynges that be now hero, 

If ye wille listene and lere [learn] 

All the story of Inglande, 

Als [as] Eobert Mannyng wryten it fund, [found it written] 

And on Inglysch has it schewed, 

Not for the lered but for the lewed [lay people] ; 

For tho [those] that on this land wonn [dwell] 




OLD ENGLISH, OR EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 77 

That the Latin ne Frankys conn [know neither Latin nor French] 
For to hauf solace and gamen [enjoyment] 

In felauship when tlia sitt samen [together] ; 

And it is wisdom for to wytten [know] 

The state of the land, and hef it wry ten, 

What manere of folk first it wan, 

And of what kynde it first began, 

And gude.it is for many thynges 

For to here [hear] the dedis of kynges [the deeds of kings], 
Whilk [which] were foies, and whilk were wyse, 

And whilk of tham couth [knew] most quantyse [quaintness, i. e. 
artfulness]; 

And whilk did wrong, and whilk ryght, 

And whilk mayntened pes [peace] and fight. 


Minor Poems. 

Many of the most curious and important poetical pro¬ 
ductions of this period, are in Latin. The minor poems 
may be divided into ballads, political songs, and devotional 
verse. “ The authors of some of these songs,” says Prof. 
Marsh, “might even boast with Dante: Locutus sum in 
lingua trind ; ” for occasionally French, Latin, and Eng¬ 
lish, are intermixed, as in the following specimen: 

Quant homme deit parleir, videat quae verba loquatur; 

Sen covent aver, ne stultior inveniatur. 

Quando quis loquitur, bote resoun reste thereynne, 

Derisum patitur, aut listel so shall he wynno. 

En seynt eglise sunt multi soepe priores ; 

Summe beoth wyse, multi sunt inferiores. 


EOGER BACON, 1214-1294. 

Roger Bacon, an English monk of the order of St. 
Francis, holds an eminent position among the great names 
that adorned the century in which he lived: such as, St. 
7* 




78 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Thomas Aquinas, the Angelic Doctor; St. Bonaventure, 
the Seraphic Doctor; Alexander Hales, the Irrefragable 
Doctor; and Albertus Magnus. He was born in Somerset¬ 
shire, in 1214. His proficiency in learning was wonderful. 
He is said to have been a perfect master of Latin, Greek, 
and Hebrew; and to have added to these a knowledge of 
the Arabic tongue. He is called the Admirable Doctor, 
on account of the progress which he made in Astronomy, 
Chemistry, Mathematics, and other departments of learning. 
He proposed to Pope Clement IV., in 1267, the correction 
of the Calendar; but the difficulty of the work, which was 
accomplished some centuries later, prevented the pontiff 
from acquiescing in this project. 

He described very exactly the nature and effects of 
concave and convex lenses, and Jed the way to the dis¬ 
covery of spectacles, telescopes, microscopes ; but he seems 
not to have known the instruments which we possess at 
present. He has also the credit of having invented the 
air-pump, the camera-obscura, the diving bell, and gun¬ 
powder. 

In his Opus 31ajus, he propounds most enlightened 
views upon the value of experiment, as a means of arriving 
at physical truth. Indeed, he was so far in advance of his 
age, that his scientific researches communicated no stim¬ 
ulus, and found no imitators. 

He died at Oxford in 1294, and is entitled to rank, 
along with Newton and Leibnitz, among the great phil¬ 
osophers and wonderful men of the world. 


THE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


19 


FOURTH PERIOD. 

THE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD, 1350-1580. 

(From tiie middle of the reign of Edward III. to the 
middle of Queen Elizabeth’s reign.) 

Further changes in the form of the language.—Groiving 
imrporJtance of Literature.—Sir John Mandeville .— 
Geoffrey Chaucer.—John Gower.—John Lydgate .— 
William Caxton.—Sir Thomas More.—Roger As - 
cham. 

Further changes in the form of the language. 

The new stage of language termed the Middle English, 
presents itself in the latter half of the fourteenth century, 
and continues till the middle of Elizabeth’s reign. In 
this period, the speech of England, heretofore an ill- 
assorted mixture of discordant ingredients, became an 
organic combination, animated by a law of life, and 
endowed with a vigor and growth that promised a long 
and healthful existence. A few specific features may be 
noticed. 

The Anglo-Saxon rules for the gender of substantive 
were set aside, and all names of things without life were, 
as ever afterwards, treated as neuters. 

The semi-Saxon infinitive in en, was sometimes retained ; 
sometimes the final n was dropped; and this step was fol¬ 
lowed by dropping the e, which had then become of no 
use. Words of French origin began to be naturalized 
and freely incorporated into the language. 



80 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


The orthography was unsettled. The characters i and 
j were not discriminated, nor u and v. Long quantity, 
where necessary, was generally indicated by the insertion 
of a vowel or by a final e, but not uniformly. The prac¬ 
tice of marking short quantity by doubling the following 
consonant, was but partially observed. 

Growing importance of Literature. 

The literary interest of this period lies chiefly in the 
prevalence that the vernacular idiom obtained ovfcr the 
French, and the general impetus given to studies : it pre¬ 
pared rather than accomplished great literary achieve¬ 
ments. In the early part of the period, the court was yet 
essentially French; in the schools, Latin was studied 
through the French; and the greater part of writers still 
composed in Latin. Edward III., it is said, knew, or at 
any rate used, no more of English than a few phrases, 
such as: ‘Ha! St. George! Ha! St. Edward!’ How¬ 
ever, an act passed under his reign (1362) ordered that 
the pleadings in all law-suits should thenceforth be carried 
on in English ; and under his successor the same rule was 
applied to parliamentary proceedings. English was now 
taught instead of French in the ‘grammere scoles of Enge- 
lond.’ The great success of the English version of Man- 
deville’s Travels, affords another proof of the growingim- 
portance of the native language. Kings Henry IV. and 
Henry V., by writing their wills in English, set a good 
example, which their nobles made sure to follow. 

A new impulse was given to the intellect of the nation 
by the introduction of printing into England in the year 
1414, by William Caxton. The narrow curriculum of 
philosophy, science, and language, which had been in use 
for centuries in the schools with little alteration, ceased 



THE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


81 


now to give satisfaction. New subjects of study were 
introduced, among which Greek held the prominent place, 
and they were pushed forward with the greatest enthusi¬ 
asm. The chief glory of the period is the name of Geof¬ 
frey Chaucer, the Father of English Poetry; and its earliest 
glory, the name of Mandeville. 

SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE, 1300-1372. 

Sir John Mandeville, author of the first English book in 
prose, deservedly holds the first place on the list of English 
prose writers lie was born at St. Albans about the year 
1800, and received a liberal education for the profession of 
medicine. Stimulated by a strong desire to visit foreign 
countries, he left England in 1322, and continued in a 
course of travels in which he is said to have speut thirty- 
four years. During this long period, he visited Palestine, 
Egypt, Persia, and parts of India and China, remaining 
three years at Pekin. After his return to his native land 
in the year 135G, he drew up an account of his observa¬ 
tions in Latin, then ‘ put this boke out of Latyn into 
Frensche, and translated it agen out of Frensche into 
Englysche, that every man of my Nacioun may undir- 
stonde it ’ His narratives were at the time very popular, 
and rendered him celebrated throughout Europe. “ Of no 
book,” says Halliwell, “with the exception of the Scrip¬ 
tures, can more manuscripts be found of the end of the 
fourteenth and beginning of the fifteenth century.” There 
are no fewer than nineteen copies in the British Museum 
alone. 

Although the English of Mandeville is straightforward 
and unadorned, and his style idiomatic, yet the proportion 
of words of Latin and French origin employed by him, is 
greater than that found in the works of Chaucer, Gower, 





82 


BRITISn LITERATURE. 


or any other English poet of that century. His work is 
purely a record of personal observations, and a detail of 
information gathered from other sources. It possesses no 
national tone or coloring, and little, if any, purely literary 
interest; but is interesting and valuable to the antiquarian, 
chiefly as giving the earliest example, on a large scale, of 
English prose. 

The only genuine edition of his Travels is thus entitled : 
The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John JUaundeville, 
Knight. It was printed in 1121, from the original Mss. 
in the Cottonian Library; and reprinted with Introduction, 
&c., by Halliwell, 1839. 

Sir John Mandeville died in 1312 at Liege, in Belgium, 
where a monument is erected to his memory. 

The following extract from his writings is given in its 
antique text, with an interlinear modernized version, in 
order to convey a better idea of the progress which the 
language has since made. 


From The Prologue. 

For als moche as the Lond bezonde the See, that is to seye, the 
For as much as the Land beyond the sea, that is to say, the 
Holy Lond, that men callen the Lond of Promyssioun, or of Be- 
Holy Land that men call the Land of Promise, or of re- 
heste, passynge alle othere Londes, is the most worthi Lond, 
ward, passing all other Lands, is the most worthy Land, 
most excellent, and Lady as Sovereyn of alle othere Londes, and 
most excellent, and Lady as Sovereign of all other Lands, and 
is blessed and halewed of the precyous Body and Blood of oure 
is blessed and hallowed of the precious Body and Blood of our 
Lord Jesu Crist; in the whiche Lond it lykede him to take 
Lord Jesus Christ; in the which Land it pleased him to take 
Flesche and Blood of the Yirgyne Marie, and become Man, and 
Flesh and Blood of the Virgin Mary, and become Man, and 



THE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


83 


worche many Myracles, and preche and teche the Feythe and the- 
work many miracles, and preach and teach the Faith and 
La we of Cristene Men unto his children ; and there it lykede 
Law of Christian men unto his children; and there it pleased 
him to suffre many Reprevinges and Scornes for us ; and he that 
him to suffer many Reproaches and Scornes for us; and he that 


was Kyng of Hevene, of Eyr, of Erthe, of See.A^dere 

was King of heaven, of air, of earth, of sea.A dear 


God, what Love had he to us his Subjettes, whan he that never 
God, what Love had he to us his subjects, when he that never 
trespaced, wolde for Trespassours suffre Dcthe!—Righte well 
trespassed would for trespassors suffer Death I — Right well 
oughte us for to love and worschipe, to drede and serven suche a 
ought we to love and worship, to dread and serve such a 
Lord; and to worschipe and prayse such an holy Lond, that 
Lord; and to worship and praise such a holy Land, that 
brouglite forthe suche Fruyt, thorghe the whiclie every Man is 
brought forth such Fruit, through the which every Man is 
saved, but it be his own defaute. 
saved, except through his own fault. 

II. And I John Maundevylle knyghte abovesoyd, (alle thoughe 
And I John Mandeville, knight abovesaid, (although 
I be unworthi) that departed from our countrees and passed the 
I be unworthy) that departed from our countries and passed the 
see, the yeer of grace 1322, that have passed manye londes and 
sea, the year of grace 1322, that have passed many lands and 
manye yles and contrees, and cerched manye fulle straunge 
many isles and countries, and searched many full-strange 
places, and have ben in many a fulle gode honourable companye, 
places, and have been in many a full-good honorable company, 
and at many a faire dcde of arms, (alle be it that I ded none 
and at many a fair deed of arms, (albeit that I did none 
myself; for myn unable insufficance) now I am comen hom 
myself, for mine unable insufficiency) now I am come home 
(mawgree my self) to reste. . . . Wherefore I preye to alle the 
(maugre myself) to rest. . . . Wherefore I pray to all the 
rederes ann hereres of this boke, zif it please hem, that thei 
readers and hearers of this book, if it please them, that they 






84 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


wolde preyen to God for me: and I shalle preye for hem. And 
would pray to God for me: and I shall pray for them. And 
alle tho that seyn for me a Pater noster, with an Ave Maria, 
all those that say for me a Pater noster, with an Ave Maria, 
that God forzeve me my synnes, I make hem partners and 
that God forgive me my sins, I make them partners and 
graunte hem part of all the gode pilgrymages and of alle the 
grant them part of all the good pilgrimages and of all the 
gode dedes, that I have don, zif ony he to his plesance: and 
good deeds that I have done, if any be to his pleasure: and 
noghte only of tho, but of alle that everc I schalle do unto my 
not only of those, but of all that ever I shall do unto my 

lyfes ende. 

life’s end. 


GEOFFREY CHAUCER, 1328-1400. 

Geoffrey Chaucer, the ‘ Father of English Poetry,’ ‘ the 
morning-star of song,’ was born in London about the year 
1328. Of his parentage nothing is known. Leland, the 
antiquary, his earliest biographer, says that he was of noble 
birth. He was attached to the party of John of Ghent, 
duke of Lancaster, who, late in life, contracted a marriage 
with the poet’s sister-in-law. His native style which Spenser 
terms ‘ well of English undefiled,’ formed the standard of 
composition for a considerable time, both during and after 
the reign of Edward III. His early pieces have much of 
the frigid conceit and pedantry of his age, when the pas¬ 
sion of love seemed the enthroned sovereign to whom all 
paid court, and the poetical worship of the rose and the 
daisy had supplanted the stateliness of the old romance. 
His works, as far as language is concerned, are of three 
kinds: translations, sketches of natural scenery, and tales 
of social life. The style is alternately grave and gay, 
pathetic and humorous, moral and licentious, chivalrous 
and vulgar. 






THE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


85 


His Iiomaunt of the Hose is a translation of a French 
poem, and, like the original, is written in octo syllabic 
couplets. It describes the passion of love under the alle¬ 
gory of a Rose. 

The House of Fame, another allegory, is executed in 
the romantic manner of the Gothic models. It is full of 
personifications, and extorts our admiration by the rich¬ 
ness and splendor of its imagery. Under the form of a 
dream or vision, the poet gives a vivid picture of the 
Temple of Glory, crowded with aspirants for immortal 
renown. 

Troilus and Greseide, a long poem in five books, founded 
on one of the favorite legends of the middle ages, is a 
translation of the Filostrato of Boccacio. It has been 
dramatized by Shakespeare in the tragedy of the same 
name. The Flower and the Leaf, an allegorical poem 
written in the seven-line stanza, has been modernized by 
Dryden. The flower typifies vain pleasure ; the leaf ‘which 
abides with the root,’ is emblematical of virtue and indus¬ 
try. Among his minor poems, Chaucer’s A. B. C ., as it 
is called, or Prayer to our Lady, discovers in its author a 
tender and unaffected devotion to the Mother of God. 
Chaucer’s most elaborate production in prose is the Testa¬ 
ment of Love in three parts, an imitation of the work of 
Boethius, De Gonsolalione, which he had translated in his 
youth. It is an allegorical and meditative work, written 
chiefly for the purpose of defending himself against cer¬ 
tain imputations that had been cast upon his character. 
The Aslrolabie is an unfinished treatise on astronomy, 
written in 1391 for the use of ‘ lytel Lowys his sonne.’ 

When advanced in age, he composed the great work on 
which his fame chiefly rests, his Canterbury -Tales, the 
most durable monument of his genius. These Tales are a 
series of independent stories linked together by an inge- 
8 


86 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


nious device which was evidently suggested by the Decam¬ 
eron* of Boccacio. A crowd of pilgrims, ‘ well nine and 
twenty in a companye,’ on their way to the shrine of St. 
Thomas a’Becket at Canterbury, pass the night at the 
Tabard Inn, Southwark, where they make the acquaintance 
of our poet. Whilst at supper, they agree to travel to¬ 
gether to Canterbury ; and, in order to relieve the tedium 
of the journey, each person, at the suggestion of the host 
of the Tabard, is to tell two stories in going, and two 
others in returning. But we are allowed to accompany 
the travellers on a part only of the journey, and to hear 
but twenty-four of their stories. All ranks of society, 
excepting the very highest and the very lowest, come in 
for a share of the poet's satirical humor or gentle praise. 
We have a Knight, who had fought against the ‘ Hea¬ 
thenesse ’ in Palestine ; his son the young Squire, attended 
by the Yeoman; and a ‘ Frankelein,’ or country.gentleman, 
in whose house ‘it snowed of mete and drink.’ The 
peasantry are represented by the Ploughman, the Miller, 
the Reve or bailiff. Then come a group of ecclesiastical 
personages, at whose expense, with the exception of the 
Parish Priest, the poet indulges without stint his ridicule 
and censure. The learning of that age has three repre¬ 
sentatives : the ‘ Clerke from Oxford the ‘ Sergeant of 
the Lawe,’ very busy, but still proud ‘to seem busier than 
he is’; and ‘the Doctor of Phisike,’ who happened to be 
a great astronomer, that ‘ studied everything but his Bible’, 
and deemed ‘ Gold in phisike a great cordiale.’ The 
group from lower life is made up of the Haberdasher, 


* This work of Boccacio consists of a hundred tales divided into decades, 
each decade occupying one day in the relation. They are narrated by a 
company of young persons of rank, who retired to a retreat on the banks of 
the Arno, in order to escape the infection of the terrible plague then raging 
in Florence. 



THE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


8T 

Carpenter, Weaver, Dyer, Tapestry-Maker, and Cook. 
These, with a few others, including the host and the poet, 
are the far-famed pilgrims of Canterbury. 

“In elocution and eloquence,” says Warton, “in har¬ 
mony and perspicuity of versification, Chaucer surpasses 
his predecessors in an infinite proportion: his genius was 
universal, and adapted to themes of unbounded variety. ” 
All nature is with him alive with a fresh and active life¬ 
blood. His grass is the gladdest green; his birds pour 
forth notes the most thrilling, the most soothing that ever 
touched /nortal ear. 

“ There was many and many a lovely note, 

Some singing loud, as if they had complained ; 

Some with their notes another manner feigned ; 

And some did sing all out with the full throat.” 

Yet, in the opinion of Hallam, it is chiefly as a comic 
poet and a minute observer of manners and circumstances 
that Chaucer excels. In serious and moral poetry he is 
frequently languid and diffuse, but he springs like Antaeus 
from the earth when his subject changes to coarse satire or 
merry narrative. “ Like many others who have given their 
thoughts to the world without an ever-present proper 
sense of moral responsibility, Chaucer, in his last hours, 
bitterly bewailed some too-well remembered lines, which 
dying he vainly wished to blot. 1 Wo is me, wo is me,’ he 
exclaimed in that solemn hour, ‘ that I cannot recall those 
things which I have written: but alas! they are now con¬ 
tinued from man to man, and I cannot do what I desire.’ ” * 

He died on the 25th of October, 14 Oft, ; find was buried 
in Westminster Abbey. 

In the following passages the spirit and simplicity of the 
original are preserved, whilst the spelling is modernized; 


* Allibone’s Diet. 



88 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


and occasionally an obsolete word or phrase is exchanged 
for one of the same meaning now in use. 

Prologue to tiie Canterbury Tales. 

When that sweet April showers with downward shoot 
The drought of March have pierc’d unto the root, 

And bathed every vein with liquid power, 

Whose virtue rare engendereth the flower ; 

When Zephyrus also with his fragrant breath 
Inspired hath in every grove and heath 
The tender shoots of green, and the young sun 
Hath in the Ram one half his journey run, 

And small birds in the trees make melody, 

That sleep and dream all night with open eye; 

So nature stirs all energies and ages 
That folks are bent to go on pilgrimages, 

And palmers for to wander thro’ strange strands 
To sing the holy mass in sundry lands: 

And more especially, from each shire’s end 
Of England, they to Canterbury wend, 

The holy blissful martyr for to seek, 

Who hath upheld them when that they were weak. 

It fell, within that season on a day 
In Southwark, at the Tabard as I lay, 

Ready to wend upon my pilgrim route 
To Canterbur} 1 -, with a heart devout, 

At night was come into that hostelry 
• Well nine-and-twenty in a company, 

Of sundry folk who thus had chanced to fall 
In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all, 

That now to Canterbury town would ride. 

The chambers and the stables they were wide, 

And all of usTrefreshed, and of the best. 

And shortly when the sun was gone to rest, 

So had I spoken with them every one, 

That I was of their fellowship anon, 

And made them promise early for to rise 
To take our way there, as we did advise. 


TIIE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


89 


But ne’ertheless, while I have time and space, 

Ere that I further in this story pace, 

Methinks it were accordant with good sense 
To tell you the condition and pretence 
Of each of them, so as it seem’d to me; 

And which they were—of what kind, and degree ; 
And eke in what array that they were in : 

And at a knight, then, will I first begin. 

A Knight there was, and that a worthy man, 
"Who from the hour on which he first began 
To ride out, vowed himself to chivalry, 

Honour and truth, freedom and courtesy. 

In his lord’s war right worthy had he shone, 

And thereto ridden—none had further gone, 

In Christian, and in Heathen land, no less; 

And ever honour’d for his worthiness. 

At Alexandria was he when’t was won. 

Full oft the wassail board he had begun, 

Above the bravest w*arriors out of Prusse ; 

In Lithuania had he serv’d, and Russe; 

No Christian man so oft of his degree. 

At Algeziras, in Granada, he 

Had join’d the siege; and ridden in Belmarie: 

At Layas was he, and at Satalie, 

When they were won ; and, borne on the Great Sea, 
At many a noble fight of ships was he. 

In mortal battles had he been fifteen, 

And fought for our true faith, at Tramissene, 

In the lists thrice—and always slain his foe. 

And this same worthy Knight had been also 
In Anatolia sometime with a lord, 

Fighting against the foes of God his word ; 

And evermore he won a sovereign prize. 

Though thus at all times honour’d, he was wise, 

And of his port as meek as is a maid. 

He never yet a word discourteous said 
In all his life to any mortal wight: 

He was a very perfect gentle knight. 

8* 


90 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


But for to tell you of his staid array,— 

His horse was good, albeit he was not gay. 

He wore a fustian cassock, short and plain, 

All smutch’d with rust from coat of mail, and rain. 
For he was late return’d; and he was sage, 

And cared for nought hut his good pilgrimage. 

A Clerk there was of Oxenford also, 

That unto logic hadde long ygo.* 

His horse was lean as any garden rake; 

And he was not right fat, I undertake ; 

But hollow look’d, and sober, and ill fed. 

His uppermost short cloak was a hare thread, 

For he had got no benefice as yet, 

Nor for a worldly office was he fit. 

For he had rather have at his bed’s head 
Some twenty volumes, clothed in black or red, 

Of Aristotle and his philosophy, 

Than richest robes, fiddle, or psaltery. 

But though a true philosopher was he, 

Yet had he little gold beneath his key ; 

But every farthing that his friends e’er lent, 

In books and learning was it always spent; 

And busily he pray’d for the sweet souls 
Of those who gave him wherewith for the schools. 
Ho bent on study his chief care and heed. 

Not a word spake he more than there was need, 
And this was said with form and gravest stress, 
And short and quick, full of sententiousness. 
Sounding in moral virtue was his speech, 

And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach. 

A Serjeant of the Law, wise, wary, arch, 

■ "Who oft had gossip’d long in the church porch, 
Was also there, full rich of excellence. 

Discreet he was and of greai> reverence; 

For such he seem’d, his words were all so wise. 

J ustice he was full often in assize ; 

By patent and commission from the crown, 


* Ygo, participle = gone. 







TIIE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


91 


For his keen science and his high renown. 

Of fees and robes he many had I ween: 

So great a purchaser was nowhere seen. 

All was fee simple to him, in effect; 

His rightful gainings no one could suspect. 

So busy a man as he no circuit has ; 

And yet he seemed busier than he was. 

He had at tip of tongue all cases plain, 

With all the judgments, since King William’s reign. 
He likewise could indite such perfect law, 

None in his parchments could pinch out a flaw: 

And every statute he knew well by rote. 

He rode but homely in a medley coat, 

With band of twill’d silk round the loins made fast: 
On his array no more time shall I waste. 

A Franklin* in this company appear’d : 

White as a daisy was this Franklin’s beard. 

With sanguine hues did his complexion shine. 

Well loved he in the morn a sop in wine. 

His days he gave to pleasure, every one; 

For he was Epicurus’s own son, 

Who held the opinion that a life of bliss 
Was verily man’s perfect happiness. 

An householder of great extent was he; 

He was St. Julianf in his own countrey. 

With bread and ale his board was always crown’d. 

A better cellar nowhere could be found. 

His pantry never was without baked meat, 

And fish and flesh, so plenteous and complete, 

It snow’d within his house of meat and drink, 

Of all the dainties that a man could think, 

After the sundry seasons of the year, 

His meats thus changed he, and his supper cheer. 

Full many a partridge fat had he in mew, 

And many a bream and many a jack in stew. 


* A large Freeholder, and wealthy country gentleman, 
f “St. Julian was eminent for providing his votaries with good lodgings 
and accommodations of all sorts.’-Tyrw.'iitt. 





BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Woe to his cook, unless his sauces were 
Made piquant rich, and ready all his gear. 

His table with repletion heavy lay 

Amidst his hall, throughout the feast-long day. 

At sessions there was he both lord and sire. 

Full often time he had been Knight o’ the Shire. 

A dagger, and a purse of netted silk, 

Hung at his girdle, white as morning milk. 

Sheritf—comptroller—magistrate he’d been ; 

A worthier franklin there was nowhere seen. 

A Doctor of Physic rode with us along; 

There was none like him in this wide world’s thron 
To speak of physic and of surgery ; 

For he was grounded in astronomy. 

He very much prolong’d his patients’ hours 
By natural magic; and the ascendant powers 
Of figures that he cast, his art could make 
Benign of aspect, for his patient’s sake. 

He knew the cause of every malady, 

Were it of cold, or hot, or moist, or dry, 

And how engender’d—what the humours were— 
He was a very perfect practiser. 

The cause once known, and root of the disease, 
Anon he placed the sick man at his ease. 

Full ready had he his apothecaries 
To send him drugs and his electuaries. 

And each one made the other sure to w T in : 

Their friendship was no new thing to begin. 

WeH the old HSsculapius he knew, 

And Dioscorides, and Rufus too ; 

Hali, and old Hippocrates, and Galen, 

Serapion, Rasis, and wise Avicen ; 

Averroes, Damascene, and Constantin, 

Deep-seeing Bernard, Gatesden, Gilbertin. 

His diet by its nutriment weigh’d he, 

For to be charged with superfluity 
In meat and drink, had been to him a libel. 

His study was but little in the Bible. 




TIIE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


93 


He was all clad in crimson and sky-grey, 
With thin silk lined, and lustrous taffeta. 

And yet he was but moderate in expense. 

He hoarded what he gain’d i’ the pestilence; 

For gold in physic is a cordial old— 

Therefore the Doctor specially loved gold. 

A good man of religion did I see, 

And a poor Parson of a town was he: 

But rich he was of holy thought and work. 

He also was a learned man, a clerk, 

And truly would Christ’s holy gospel preach, 
And his parishioners devoutly teach. 

Benign he was and wondrous diligent, 

And patient when adversity was sent; 

Such had he often proved, and loath was he 
To curse for tythes and ransack poverty; 

But rather would he give, there is no doubt, 
Unto his poor parishioners about, 

Of his own substance, and his offerings too. 

His wants were humble, and his needs but few. 

Wide was his parish—houses far asunder— 
But he neglected nought for rain or thunder, 

In sickness and in grief to visit all 

The farthest in his parish, great and small; 

Always on foot, and in his hand a stave. 

This noble example to his flock he gave ; 

That first he wrought, and afterwards he taught. 
Out of the Gospel he that lesson caught, 

And this new figure added he thereto,— 

That if gold rust, then what should iron do ? 
And if a priest be foul, on whom we trust, 

No wonder if an ignorant man should rust: 

And shame it is, if that a priest take keep, 

To see an obscene shepherd and clean sheep. 
Well ought a priest to all example give, 

By his pure conduct, how his sheep should live. 

He let not out his benefice for hire, 

Leaving his flock encumber’d in the mire, 



94 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


While he ran up to London, to St. Paul’s, 

To seek a well-paid chantery for souls, 

Or with a loving friend his pastime hold ; 

But dwelt at home and tended well his fold, 

So that to foil the wolf he was right wary: 

He was a shepherd, and no mercenary. 

And though he holy was and virtuous, 

He was to sinful men full piteous; 

His words were strong, hut not with anger fraught; 
A lore benignant he discreetly taught. 

To draw mankind to heaven by gentleness 
And good example, was his business. 

But if that any one were obstinate, 

Whether he were of high or low estate, 

Him would he sharply check with alter’d mien ; 

A better parson there was nowhere seen. 

He paid no court to pomps and reverence, 

Nor spiced his conscience at his soul’s expense; * 
But Jesus’ lore, which owns no pride or pelf, 

He taught—but first he follow’d it himself. 

An April Day. 

All day the low-hung clouds have dropt 
Their garnered fulness down ; 

All day that soft gray mist hath w r rapt 
Hill, valley, grove, and town. 

There has not been a sound to-day 
To break the calm of nature : 

Nor motion, I might almost say, 

Of life, or living creature; 

Of waving bough, or warbling bird, 

Or cattle faintly lowing ; 

I could have half-believed I heard 
The leaves and blossoms growing. 

I stood to hear—I love it well, 

The rain’s continuous sound, 


♦That is, he did not embalm or preserve his conscience by sophistries 
and artificial moralities. 



THE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


Small drops, but thick and fast they fell, 

Down straight into the ground. 

For leafy thickness is not yet 
. Earth's naked breast to screen, 

Though every dripping branch is set 
"With shoots of tender green. 

Sure since I looked at early morn, 

Those honeysuckle buds 

Have swelled to double growth: that thorn 
Hath put forth larger studs; 

That lilac’s cleaving cones have burst, 

The milk-white flowers revealing ; 

EVen now, upon my senses first 

Methinks their sweets are stealing. 

The very earth, the steamy air 
Is all with fragrance rife ; 

And grace and beauty everywhere 
Are flushing into life. 

Down, down they come—those fruitful stores I 
Those earth-rejoicing drops! 

A momentary deluge pours, 

Then thins, decreases, stops ; 

And ere the dimples on the stream 
Have circled out of sight, 

Lo ! from the west, a parting gleam 
Breaks forth, of amber light. 

But yet behold—abrupt and loud, 

Comes down the glittering rain ; 

The farewell of a passing cloud, 

The fringes of her train. 

From Chauceres A. B. C. called La Priere de Nostre 

Dame. 

C. 

Comfort ys noon, but in vow, Lady dere ! 

For loo my synne and my confusioun, 

Which oughte not in thy presence for to appere, 

Han take on mo a grevouse accioun, 


96 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Of verray ryght and disperacioun ! 

And as by ryght they myghten wel sustene, 
That I were worthy my damnacioun, 

N ere mercye of yow, blysful hevenes queene ! 

E. 

Evere hath myn hope of refute in the be; 

For here before ful often in many a wyse, 

Unto mercy hastow receyved me. 

But mercy, Lady ! at the grete assise, 

Whan we slial come before the hye justise I 
So litel good shal then in me be founde, 

That, but thou er that day correcte me, 

Of verray ryght my werke wol me confounde. 

G. 

Gloriouse mayde and moder ! whiche that never 
Were bitter nor in erthe nor in see, 

But ful of swetnesse and of mercye ever, 

Help, that my fader be not worthe with me! 
Speke thow, for I ne dar nat him yse; 

So have I doon in erthe, alias the while! 

That certes, but that thow my socour be, 

To synke eterne he wol my goost exile. 

, Q. 

Queene of comfort, yet whan I me bethynke, 
That I agilite have bothe hym and thee, 

And that my soule ys worthy for to synke, 

Allas ! I, katyf, whider may I fle ? 

Who shal unto thy Sone my mene be? 

Who, but thy selfe, that art of pitee welle ? 
Thou hast more routhe on oure adversite 
Than in this world myght any tongc telle. 


TIIE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


97 


JOHN GOWER, 1325 (?)-1402. 

The personal history of John Gower, the contemporary 
and friend of Chaucer, is involved in great obscurity. He 
was liberally educated, having studied at Merton College, 
Oxford; and was a member of the Society of the Inner 
Temple.* He appears to have been in affluent circum¬ 
stances, as he contributed largely to the building of the 
conventual church of St. Mary Overies, in Southwark. 
Peacham, in his Complete Gentleman, says of him : “His 
verses, to say the truth, were poor and plaine, yet full of 
good and grave moralitie ; but, while he affected altogether 
the French phrase and words, made himself too obscure to 
his reader; beside his invention cometh far short of the 
promise of his titles.” He is on all occasions serious and 
didactic, and so uniformly grave and sententious, even upon 
topics which might inspire vivacity, that he is characterized 
by Chaucer as the ‘Morall Gower.’ 

His principal work consists of three parts, the third of 
which alone has been printed : 

1. Speculum Meditanlis, a moral tract in French 
rhymes. This work has not been seen in modern times, 
and has in all probability perished. 

2. Vox Clamanlis, a metrical chronicle of the insurrec¬ 
tion of the Commons under Richard II. It consists of 
seven books in Latin elegiacs. 

3. Confessio Amantis, an English poem in octo-syllabie 
Romance metre, said to contain 30,000 verses; it treats of 
the morals and metaphysics of love. The language is tol- 


* The colleges of the English professors and students of common law are 
called Inns. The four principal Inns of Court are, the Inner Temple, the 
Middle Temple, Lincoln’s Inn, and Gray’s Inn. At the present day, beR.ro 
being called to the Bar, it is necessary to be admitted a member of one of 
the Inns of Court. 

9 




98 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


erably perspicuous, and the versification often harmonious ; 
‘but the amount of edification or entertainment to be got 
out of the Gonfessio Amaniis is not very considerable/ 
says Dr. Craik. 

He died at an advanced age in 1402, and was buried in 
St. Mary Overies, now St. Saviour's Church, to which he 
was a benefactor, and in which his tomb is still to be seen. 

The following lines taken from the fifth book of his Con- 
fessio Amantis, are given as a specimen of the spelling 
and archaisms of his time: 

In a cronique thus I rede: 

Aboute a king, as must nede, 

Ther was of linyghtes and squiers 
Gret route, and eke of officers: 

Some of long time him hadden served, 

And thoughten that they have deserved 
Avancement, and gon withoute : 

And some also ben of the route, 

That comen but a while agon, 

And they avanced were anon. 

JOHN LYDGATE, 1375 (?)-1430. 

Of the immediate followers of Chaucer and Gower, John 
Lydgate is the most distinguished versifier. He was a 
monk of the Benedictine Abbey of Bury St. Edmund’s in 
Suffolk, and flourished in the reigns of Henry Y. and 
Henry YI. He was regarded as a prodigy of learning at 
the period in which he lived. He had traveled in France 
and Italy, and mastered the language and literature of 
both countries. On his return to England, he opened a 
school at his monastery, and gave instruction in poetry and 
rhetoric, and even in mathematics and theology. Though 
his style is often very diffuse and more antique than 
Chaucer’s, he has the credit of having improved the poetical 
language of the country. His poems range over a great 


THE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


99 


variety of subjects. His principal pieces are The Fall of 
Princes, taken from Boccacio, The Story of Thebes, and 
The History of Troy containing about 28,000 verses. 
Besides these, a list has been given of his other pieces to 
the number of 251, existing in manuscripts in different 
libraries. A selection from the minor poems of Dan John 
Lydgate, edited by Mr. Haliivrell, has been printed for the 
Percy Society, 8vo, London, 1840. 

Lydgate wrote in verse a life of St. Edmund, which he 
dedicated to Henry VI. 

Warton says of him: “ He is the first of our writers 
whose style is clothed with that perspicuity in which the 
English phraseology appears, at this day, to an English 
reader.” 

We give, with some changes in the spelling, the follow¬ 
ing beautiful lament, taken from his Testament: 

Christ describes his Sufferings. 

Behold, O man ! lift up thine eye, and see 
What mortal pain I suffer’d for thy trespace! 

With piteous voice I cry, and say to thee, 

Behold my wounds, behold my bloody face! 

Behold the rebukes, that do me so menace, 

Behold mine enrnyes that do me so despise, 

And how that I, to reform thee to grace, 

Was, like a lamb, offer’d in sacrifice] 

Behold the mynstrys,* which had me in keeping, 

Behold the pillar and the ropiS strong, 

Where I was bound, my sides down bleeding, 

Most felly beat with their scdorges long! 

Behold the battle which I did underfong,f 
The brunt abiding of their mortal J emprise! 

Through their accusing and their slanders wrong, 

Was [I], like a lamb, offer’d in sacrifice. 


* Ministers, officers. 


f Undertake. 


Deadly work. 










BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Behold and see the hateful wretchedness, 

Put again me, to my confusion, 

Mine eyen hid and blinded with darkness, 

Beat and eke bobbid* by false illusion, 

Sal wed f in scorn by their false kneeling down ! 
Behold all this, and see the mortal guise, 

How I, alone, for man’s salvacion, 

Was, like a lamb, offered in sacrifice. 

See my disciples, how they ha J me forsake, 

And fro me fled, almost every one, 

See how they slept and list not with me wake! 

Of mortal dread they left me all alone, 

Except my Mother and my cousin John, 

My death complaining in most doleful wise : 

See fro my cross they wolde never gone, 

Eor man’s offense when I did sacrifice. 

Behold the knights, \ which, by their froward chaunce, 
Sat for my clothes at the dice to play I 
Behold my Mother, swouning for grevaunce, 

Upon the cross when she sawhe || me die ! 

Behold the sepulchre in which my bonys lie, 

Kept with strong watche till I did arise! 

Of hell gates see how I brak the key , 

And gave for man my blood in sacrifice ! 

Turn home again, thy sinne do forsake, 

Behold and see if aught be left behind, 

How I to mercy am ready thee to take; 

Give me thine heart and be no more unkind ! 

Thy love and mine togidre do them bind, 

And let them never parte in no wise : 

When thou wer lost, thy soul again to find, 

My blood I offer’d for thee in sacrifice. 


♦Deceived f Saluted. 


X Have. 


I Soldiers. 


|| Saw. 



THE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


101 


WILLIAM CAXTON, 1412 (?)-1492. 

William Caxton, memorable as the first English prin¬ 
ter, and as a voluminous translator, was born in Kent 
about 1412. He spent twenty-three years in Holland and 
Flanders; and, whilst there, made himself master of the 
art of printing, then recently introduced on the continent. 
Having translated a French book styled Recuyell des 
Histoires de Troyes, he printed it at Ghent, in 1471. 
This was the first book in the English language, ever 
issued from the press. He afterwards established a print¬ 
ing offide at Wesminster, and published The Game and 
Playe of the Chesse, which was probably the first book 
printed in England. Caxton translated or wrote sixty- 
four different books. He calls Chaucer, whose Canterbury 
tales he took great pains to have correctly printed, ‘ the 
worshipful father and first founder and embellisher of 
ornate eloquence in our English.’ He was one of the most 
industrious and indefatigable of men, uniting with industry 
great modesty and simplicity of character, and styling 
himself ‘simple William Caxton.’ It is said that he spent 
some hours of the last days of his life in translating for the 
press Vitae Patrum, or ‘the righte devout and solitairye 
lyfe of the ancient or olde holy faders, hermytes dwelling 
in the deserts.’ He died in 1492. 

SIR THOMAS MORE, 1480-1535. 

Sir Thomas More, the most distinguished character in 
the reign of Henry VIII., was born in London, in the year 
1480. He was the son of a judge of the King’s Bench, 
and was educated at Oxford. Science and virtue had 
great attractions for him, and he cultivated both with 
eminent success. He was a man of true genius and pos- 
9* 


102 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


sessed a id enriched with all the learning of his time. 
He ranks \ h Bishop Fisher and Cardinal Pole among 
the leading unan Catholic writers of the reign of Henry 
VIII. Ilis s; acity and talents, displayed in various hon¬ 
orable and in 'rtant public functions, especially in the 
conference for i peace of Cambrai in 1529, caused him 
to be raised to tl. dignity of Lord High Chancellor. 

His Utopia , wri. i in Latin and first published in 1518, 
was translated into iglish as early as 1551 by Robinson, 
and later by Bishop x . rnet. It is a curious philosophical 
work, full of profound observations and shrewd insights 
into human nature ; i \ describing an imaginary model 
country and people, in tation of Plato’s Commonwealth. 
The word ‘utopia’ has since his time, become an English 
word, applied to eve scheme of national improvement 
founded on theoretica 1 iews. “ If false and impracticable 
theories,” says Hall , “are found in the Utopia , (and 
perhaps More knev iiem to be such,) this is in a much 
greater degree tr of the Platonic Republic; and they 
are more than < ipensated by the sense of justice and 
humanity that .wades it, and his bold censures on the 
vices of powei 

His Histo of Edward V., of his Brother , and of 
Bichard I T ; is, in Hailam’s judgment, the earliest speci¬ 
men of ( lifted idiomatic prose, without vulgarism or 
pedantr It is certainly the first English history that can 
be saic j aspire to be more than a chronicle, and is char¬ 
acter d by an easy narrative that rivals the sweetness of 
Her otus. “]S T o historians either of ancient or modern 
tiir ” says Hume, “can possibly have more weight. He 
m justly be esteemed a contemporary with regard to the 
j ;der of the two princes ; and it is plain from his narra- 

e that he had the particulars from the eye-witnesses 
.jemselves.” 


TIIE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


103 


More also wrote a great number of devotional treatises 
and controversial tracts. Among these maybe mentioned 
an answer to the work of Luther against the king of Eng¬ 
land, divided into two books ; and an explanation of the 
Passion of our Lord, with a beautiful prayer taken from 
the Psalms. 

Sir Thomas More was unjustly imprisoned and con¬ 
demned to death by Henry VIII., for refusing to take the 
oath of supremacy in which the king was declared to be 
the supreme head of the Church In prison, some of his 
friends endeavored to gain him over by representing to 
him that he ought not to entertain any other opinion than 
that of the Parliament of England. “ I should mistrust 
myself,” he said, “to stand alone against the whole Parlia¬ 
ment ; but I have on my side the whole Catholic Church, 
the great parliament of Christians.” When his wife con¬ 
jured him to obey the king, and preserve his life for the 
consolation and support of his children, “ How many 
years,” said he, “ do you think I have still to live ?” She 
replied : “ More than twenty.”—“ Ah, my wife,” he con¬ 
tinued, “ do you wish that I should exchange eternity for 
twenty years?” Indeed a character of greater disinter¬ 
estedness and integrity, is scarcely to be met with either 
in ancient or modern history. The poet Thompson pays 
him this beautiful and well-deserved tribute of praise : 

Like Cato firm, like Aristides just. 

Faithfully and firmly attached to the principles of the 
Catholic faith, he lived amid the splendors of the court 
without pride, and perished on the scaffold without weak¬ 
ness. His death was that of the Christian martyr. “In 
the pictures of Holbein, in his Life by Roper and by Mack¬ 
intosh, and in his correspondence with Erasmus, where he 
is seen in his house at Chelsea, paying reverence to his 


104 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


parents and playing with his children, he has become en¬ 
deared to modern readers ; while his cheerful disposition 
is just such as we naturally associate with true greatness 
and welcome wherever it is found.” * 

Returning from the negociations at Cambrai (1523), 
Sir Thomas More heard that his barns, and those of some 
of his neighbors had been burned down; he consequently 
wrote to his wife the following letter, which has been 
deservedly commended for its spirit of gentleness, benevo¬ 
lence, and piety. The original orthography is preserved. 

Letter to Lady More. 

Maistres Alyce, in my most harty wise I recommend me to 
you ; and whereas I am enfourmed by my son Heron of the losse 
of our barnes and of our neighbours also, with all the corn that 
was therein, albeit (saving God's pleasure) it is gret pitie of so 
much good corne lost, yet sith it hath liked hym to sende us such 
a chaunce, we must and are bounden, not only to be content, but 
also to be glad of his visitacion. 

He sente us all that, we have loste : and sith lie hath by such a 
chaunce taken it away againe, his pleasure be fulfilled. Let us 
never grudge ther at, but take it in good worth, and hartely thank 
him, as well for adversitie as for prosperitie. And peradventure 
we have more cause to thank him for our losse, then for our win¬ 
ning ; for his wisdome better seeth what is good for us then we 
do our selves. 

Therfore I pray you be of good chere, and take all the hows- 
old with you to church, and there thanke God, both for that he 
hath given us, and for that he hath taken from us, and for that 
he hath left us, which if it please hym he can encrease when he 
will. And if it please hym to leave us yet lesse, at his pleasure 
be it. 

I pray you to make some good enscarche what my poore neigh¬ 
bours have loste, and bid them take no thought therfore: for andf 
I shold not leave myself a spone, there shal no pore neighbour of 


Angus, Handbook of Eng. Lit., p. 319. 


t And means if. 



TIIE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


105 


mine bore no losse by any chaunco happened in my house. I 
P r ay you be with my children and your household merry in God. 
And devise some what with your frendes, what wave wer best to 
take, for provision to be made for corne for our household, and 
for sede thys yere comming, if ye thinke it good that we kepe 
the ground stil in our bandes. And whether ye think it good 
that we so slial do or not, yet I think it were not best sodenlye 
thus to leave it all up, and to put away our folk of our farme till 
we have somewhat advised us thereon. 

How beit if we have more nowe then ye shall node, and which 
can get them other maisters, ye may then discharge us of them. 
But I would not that any man were sodenly sent away he wote 
nere wether. 

At my comming hither I perceived none other but that I 
should tary still with the Kinges Grace. 

But now I shall (I think) because of this chance, get leave this 
next wekc to come home and se j’ou: and then shall we further 
devyse together uppon all thinges, what order shall be best to 
take. 

And thus as hartely fare you well with all our children as ye 
can wislie. At Woodestok the third day of Septembre by the 
hand of 

your loving husbande, 


Thomas More Knight. 


Character of Richard III. 

Richard, the third son, of whom we now entreat, was in wit 
and courage equal with either of them ; in body and prowess, far 
under them both ; but little of stature, ill-featured of limbs, 
crook-backed, his left shoulder much higher than his right, hard- 
favored of visage. He was malicious, wrathful, envious, and 
from afore his birth ever froward. 

Hone evil captain was he in the war, as to which his disposition 
was more meetly than for peace. Sundry victories had he, and 
sometime overthrows, but never in default for his own person, 
either of hardiness or politic order. Free was he called of 
dispense, and somewhat above his power liberal With large 


10G 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


gifts he get him unsteadfast friendship, for which he was fain to 
pil and spoil in other places, and get him steadfast hatred. He 
was close and secret; a deep dissimuler, lowly of countenance, 
arrogant of heart; outwardly coumpinable where he inwardly 
hated; dispitious and cruel, not for evil will alway, hut oftencr 
for ambition, and either for the surety and increase of his estate. 
Friend and foe was indifferent, where his advantage grew ; ho 
spared no man’s death whose life withstood his purpose. He slew 
with his own hands king Henry VI. being prisoner in the 
Tower. 


ROGER ASCHAM, 1515-1568. 

Roger Ascliara, at one time preceptor, and ultimately 
Latin Secretary to Queen Elizabeth, is the first writer on 
education in our language. He took his degree in the 
University of Cambridge at the age of nineteen. His 
two principal works are: Toxophilus, and the School¬ 
master. 

Toxophilus, published in 1544, is a dialogue on the art 
of Archery, designed to promote an elegant and useful, 
mode of recreation among those who, like himself, gave 
most of their time to study, and also to exemplify a style 
of composition more purely English than what was in 
vogue at that time. 

The Schoolmaster, printed after his death, contains 
good general views of education, and what Johnson 
acknowledges to be * perhaps the best advice that was ever 
given for the study of languages.’ 

His writings are in pure, idiomatic, vigorous English. 
They exhibit great variety of knowledge, remarkable 
sagacity, and sound common sense. In his dedication of 
Toxophilus to the gentlemen and yeomen of England, he 
recommends to all who would write in any tongue, the 
counsel of Aristotle: * To speak as the common people do, 
to think as wise men do.’ From this we may perceive 


THE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


107 


that he had a proper regard for what was due to the great 
fountain-head and oracle of the national language—the 
vocabulary of the common people. 

He was never robust; and his death, which happened 
in 1568, was occasioned by too close application to the 
composition of a Latin poem, which he intended to present 
to Queen Elizabeth on the anniversary of her accession to 
the throne. 

The following extracts from the opening of the Tox - 
opliilus show that what was good sense and sound phil¬ 
osophy in.Ascham’s time, is so still; and that the lesson 
is not less required at the present time, than it was then. 

Study should be relieved by amusement. 

Philologies .—How much in this matter is to be given to the 
authority of Aristotle or Tully, I cannot tell, seeing sad men may 
well enough speak merrily for a mere matter; this I am sure, 
which thing this fair wheat (God save it) maketh me remember, 
that those husbandmen which rise earliest, and come latest home, 
and are content to have their dinner and other drinkings brought 
into the field to them, for fear of losing of time, have fatter barns 
in the harvest, than they which will either sleep at noontime of 
the day, or else make merry with their neighbors at the ale. 
And so a scholar, that purposeth to be a good husband, and 
desireth to reap and enjoy much fruit of learning, must till and 
sow thereafter. Our best seed-time, which be scholars, as it is 
very timely, and when we be young; so it endureth not over 
long, and therefore it may not be let slip one hour ; our ground 
is very hard and full of weeds ; our horse wherewith we be 
drawn very wild, as Plato saith. And infinite other mo lets,* 
which will make a thrifty scholar take heed how he spendeth his 
time in sport and play. 

Toxophilus .—That Aristotle and Tully spake earnestly and as 
they thought, the earnest matter which they entreat upon, doth 
plainly prove. And as for your husbandry, it was more probably 


* Mo lets means more obstacles. 



108 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


told with apt words, proper to the thing, than thoroughly proved 
with reasons belonging to our matter. For, contrarywise, I 
heard myself a good husband at his book once say, that to omit 
study for some time of the day, and some time of the year, made 
as much for the increase of learning, as to let the land lie some 
time fallow, maketh for the better increase of corn. This we see ? 
if the land be ploughed every year, the corn cometh thin up ; the 
ear is short, the grain is small, and when it is brought into the 
barn and threshed, giveth very evil faule. So those which never 
leave poring on their books, have oftentimes as thin invention as 
other poor men have, and as small wit and weight in it as in 
other men's. And thus your husbandry, metliink, is more like 
the life of a covetous snudge, that oft very evil proves, than the 
labour of a good husband, that knoweth well what he doth. And 
surel}’’ the best wits to learning must needs have much recreation, 
and ceasing from their book, or else they mar themselves, when 
base and dumpish wits can never be hurt with continual study 
as ye see in luting, that a treble minikin string must always be 
let down, but at such time as when a man must needs play, when 
the base and dull string needeth never to be moved out of his 
place. The same reason I find true in two bows that I have, 
whereof the one is quick of cast, trig, and trim, both for pleasure 
and profit; the other is a lugge slow of cast, following the 
string, more sure for to last than pleasant for to use. Now, sir, 
it chanced this other night, one in my chamber would needs bend 
them to prove their strength, but (I cannot tell how) they were 
both left bent till the next day after dinner; and when I came to 
them, purposing to have gone on shooting, I found my good bow 
clean cast on the one side, and as weak as water, that surely, if I 
were a rich man, I had rather have spent a crown ; and as for my 
lugge, it was not one whit the worse, but shot by and by as well 
and as far as ever it did. And even so, I am sure that good wits, 
except they be let down like a treble string, and unbent like a 
good casting bow, they will never last and be able to continue in 
study. And I know where I speak this, Philologe, for I would 
not say thus much afore young men, for they will take soon 
occasion to study little enough. But I say it, therefore, because 
I know, as little study getteth little learning, or none at all, so 
the most study getteth not the most learning of all. For a man’s 
wit, fore-occupied in earnest study, must be as well recreated 


THE MIDDLE ENGLISH PERIOD. 


100 

with some honest pastime, as the body, fore-laboured, must be 
refreshed with sleep and quietness, or else it cannot endure very 
long, as the noble poet saith : 

“What thing wants quiet and merry rest, endures but a small 
while.” 


Occupations should be chosen suitable to the Natural 

Faculties. 

If men would go about matters which they should do and be 
fit for, and not such things which wilfully they desire and yet be 
unfit for, verily greater matters in the commonwealth than shoot¬ 
ing should be in better case than they be. This ignorance in men 
which know not for what time and to what thing they be fit, 
causeth some wish to be rich, for whom it were better a great 
deal to be poor; other to be meddling in every man’s matter, for 
whom it were more honesty to be quiet and still; some to desire 
to be in the court, which be born and be fitter rather for the cart; 
some to be masters and rule others, which never yet began to rule 
themselves; some always to jangle and talk, which rather should 
hear and keep silence; some to teach, which rather should learn ; 
some to be priests, which were fitter to be clerks. And this per¬ 
verse judgment of the world, when men measure themselves 
amiss, bringeth much disorder and great unseemliness to the 
whole body of the commonwealth, as if a man should wear his 
hose upon his head, or a woman go with a sword and a buckler, 
every man would take it as a great uncomeliness, although it be 
but a trifle in respect of the other. 

This perverse judgment of men hindereth nothing so much as 
learning, because, commonly those that be unfittest for learning, 
be chiefly set to learning. As if a man now-a-days have two 
sons, the one impotent, weak, sickly, lisping, stuttering, and 
stammering, or having any mis-shape in his body; what doth 
the father of such one commonly say ? This boy is fit for nothing 
else, but to set to learning and make a priest of, as who would 
say, the outcasts of the world, having neither countenance, tongue, 
nor wit, (for of a perverse body cometh commonly a perverse 
mind,) be good enough to make those men of, which shall be 
10 


110 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


appointed to preach God’s holy word, and minister his blessed 
sacraments, besides other most weighty matters in the common¬ 
wealth; put oft times, and worthily, to learned men’s discretion 
and charge; when rather such an office so high in dignity, so 
goodly in administration should be committed to no man, which 
should not have a countenance full of comeliness to allure good 
men, a body full of manly authority to fear ill men, a wit apt 
for all learning, with tongue and voice able to persuade all men. 
And although few such men as these can be found in a common¬ 
wealth, yet surely a goodly-disposed man will both in his mind 
think fit, and with all his study labour, to get such men as I 
speak of, or rather better, if better can be gotten, for such an 
high administration, which is most properly appointed to God’s 
own matters and businesses. 


TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


Ill 


FIFTH PERIOD. 

THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


(From the middle of Queen Elizabeth’s reign in 1580, to 

THE PRESENT TIME.) 

The mistake of attributing the extraordinary intellec¬ 
tual development of this period to the Protestant 
Reformation.—Real causes of human progress and 
literary improvement in the modern period.—The 
Augustan Age of English Literature .— The Civil 
War, Protectorate, and Restoration .— The Eighteenth 
Century—The Nineteenth Century .— Thomas Sack- 
ville.—The early Drama and Dramatists. — William 
Shakespeare .— Lord Bacon .— Ben Jonson. — Abra¬ 
ham Cowley.—John Milton.—Samuel Butler.—John 
Dryden .— Joseph Addison.—Daniel Defoe. — Alex¬ 
ander Pope.—Jonathan Swift.—James Thomson .— 
William Collins.—Edward Young .— Thomas Gray. 
—Oliver Goldsmith .— David Hume .— Dr. Samuel 
Johnson .— William Robertson.—Edward Gibbon .— 
Edmund Burke .— William Cowper.—James Beattie. 
—Lord Byron .— William Roscoe.—Sir Walter Scolt. 
—Novels and Novel Reading .— George Crabbe .— 
Samuel J. Coleridge. — Robert Southey. — Thomas 
Campbell.—Sydney Smith. — William Wordsworth .— 
Lord Jeffrey .— Dr. Lingard.—Thomas Moore .— 
Samuel Rogers.—Henry Hallam.—Lord Macaulay. 
— William M. Thackeray. — Cardinal Wiseman .— 
Charles Dickens .— Thomas Carlyle. — Dr. Newman. 
—Alfred Tennyson.—Aubrey de Vere. 


112 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


The mistake of attributing tiie extraordinary in¬ 
tellectual DEVELOPMENT OF THIS PERIOD TO TIIE 
Protestant Reformation. 

What we understand by the Modern English Period, is 
all that interval of time which extends from the middle of 
Queen Elizabeth’s reign to our own day. Doubtless more 
books have been produced than at any preceding period, 
elementary knowledge has spread more extensively among 
the masses, physical sciences have reached a wonderful 
development, criticism and philology have entered a new 
career, art-writing has become a special branch of litera¬ 
ture, the novel and the newspaper have grown to be the 
daily food of the million. But is it right to conclude 
from these facts, as so many of our text-books have con¬ 
cluded, that the so-called Protestant Reformation origi¬ 
nated this movement, and thus opened to mankind an era 
of unheard-of progress in civilization and science? Or 
rather, was not the intellectual activity of Europe already 
aroused and even fairly started with a promise of great 
progress before the sixteenth century, and did not that 
activity receive from the religious and political commotion 
of the Reformation a sudden check, from which it has 
recovered only to grow wild, and follow, to a great extent, 
devious and deceitful ways? We do not mean to enter 
here upon a full discussion of this vast subject, but merely 
to- throw in a few remarks, corroborated in most instances 
by Protestant authorities, concerning the actual influence 
of the Reformation upon the principal elements of human 
progress, as literature in general, fine arts, philosophy, 
social order, liberty both civil and religious; and then 
briefly state what we understand to be the real causes of 
the wider spread of letters in modern times. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


113 


1. Literature in general Erasmus, who was con¬ 
temporary with the early reformers, and certainly no blind 
approver of the old state of things, gives his testimony 
that the Reformation was fatal to all wholesome intellect¬ 
ual progress, and he laments bitterly that wherever Luther¬ 
anism reigns, literature perishes. In one of his letters, 
speaking of the Evangelicals of his day, he tells us that to 
them is due the fact that polite letters are neglected and 
forgotten: ‘ languent, fugiunt, jacent, intereunt bonse lit¬ 
ter®.’ * “ The most striking effect,” says Hallam, “ of the 

first preaching of the Reformation was that it appealed to 
the ignorant. ... It is probable that both the principles 
of the great founder of the Reformation, and the natural 
tendency of so intense an application to theological con¬ 
troversy checked, for a time, the progress of philological 
and philosophical literature on this side of the Alps.”f 
Thomas Arnold, in his work entitled Chaucer to Words - 
worth, thus characterizes the English reformers: “The 
official reformers, if one may so call them,—Henry YIII. 
and his agents, and the council of Edward YI.—did posi¬ 
tive injury to education and literature for the time, by the 
rapacity which led them to destroy the monasteries for the 
sake of their lands. Many good monastic schools thus 
ceased to exist, and education throughout the country 
seems to have been at the lowest possible ebb about the 
middle of the century. The sincere reformers, who after¬ 
wards developed in the great Puritan party, were disposed 
to look upon human learning as something useless, if not 
dangerous; upon art as a profane waste of time; and 
generally upon all mental exertion which was not directed 
to the great business of securing one’s salvation, as so much 
labor thrown avvay.”J In his History of English ldtera - 


* Hallam’s Lit. of Europe, vol. 1., p. 189. f Ibid, p. 192. J pp, 52 and 53. 
10 * 




Ill 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


tare , tlie same writer lays the charge in question upon the 
reformers generally, and Lutherinparticular as being the 
originator of the fanatic movement against human learn¬ 
ing. * * * § “ By the regulations of the Star Chamber, in 

1585, no press was allowed to be used out of London, 
except one at Oxford and another at Cambridge. Thus 
every check was imposed on literature, and it seems un¬ 
reasonable to dispute that they had some efficacy in 
restraining its progress” f 

2. Fine Arts. The effect of the Reformation on the 
fine arts was pernicious, not only by the destruction of 
existing specimens of architecture, sculpture and painting; 
but by diverting art itself from its original and natural 
destination. The Reformation viewed as superstition the 
pomp of divine worship, as objects of idolatry the master¬ 
pieces of art. Its tendency was to degrade taste by repu¬ 
diating its models; to introduce a dry, cold, captious for¬ 
mality in lieu of the elevating, soul inspiring service of the 
old Catholic cathedrals J “The Reformation favorable to 
the fine arts! ” exclaims Archbishop Spalding, “ as well 
might you assert that a conflagration is beneficial to a 
city which it consumes. Wherever the Reformation ap¬ 
peared, it pillaged, defaced, often burnt churches and 
monasteries; it broke up and destroyed statues and paint¬ 
ings, and it often burnt whole libraries.” § In the British 
Parliament during the Protectorate, so deep was the fan¬ 
aticism of the times, that ‘ serious propositions were made 


* p. 106. f Hallam’s Lit., pp. 413 and 414. 

% When Dean, afterwards Bishop, Berkeley offered an organ as a gift to 
the town of Berkeley in Massachusetts, the selectmen of the town were not 
prepared to harbor so dangerous a guest; and, voting that ‘an organ is an 
instrument of the devil for the entrapping of men’s souls, they declined the 

offer.’ Duckinck’s Cyc., vol. I, p. 166. 

§ Hist, of the Reformation, vol. I, ch. 15. 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 115 

to paint all the churches black in order to typify the gloom 
and corruption that reigned within them.” * 

3. Philosophy. A few remarks concerning the influence 
of Protestantism on philosophy, are made necessary from 
the close relation in which that branch of learning stands 
to literature. The vehicle through which the results of 
philosophical investigation are conveyed to the people at 
large, is literature; and, reciprocally, the speculations of 
philosophy are modified by the ideas current in literature. 
What, then, have been the effects of the Reformation on 
philosophy ? 

The fundamental principle of the Reformation—private 
judgment or the rejection of authority in religious matters 
—sweeps away all the mysteries of the Christian faith, since, 
being above human reason they cannot be comprehended 
by human reason. Hence Rationalism must be substituted 
for Christianity, and a pagan literature must be ultimately 
the inevitable consequence. In fact, Bacon’s incessant 
appeal to the senses for the ascertaining of truth, led his 
unscrupulons disciples to drive away God and the soul 
from their philosophy, and rush madly into the gross errors 
of materialism. To substantiate what we say, we need 
only recall the names of Lord Herbert of Cherbury, 
Hobbes, Toland, Blount, Shaftesbury, Woolston, and Bol- 
ingbroke. The French philosophism of the last century 
emanated from this school; and the French infidels, headed 
by Yoltaire, were at first mere echoes of their English 
masters. It is also a fact worthy of notice that Yoltaire, 
who cherished so intense a hatred of Christianity, has 
generally found great favor with Protestants. At times, 
indeed, reactionary movements have been set on foot to 
turn the tide of infidelity; but, as long as the principle 


* Shaw’s Outlines of Eng. Lit., p. 43. 







116 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


remains, such movements will be failures. To-day the 
fatal doctrines continue to produce the self-same conse¬ 
quences in the sceptical, anti-Christian spirit that strives 
more and more to assert its supremacy, even in such quar¬ 
ters as the once so conservative University of Oxford. 
The effects of such a philosophy upon literature have been 
to deprive it of the highest source of inspiration, the 
Christian spirit; to throw a cloud of doubts over the best- 
ascertained facts of history; and finally to replace Chris¬ 
tian by pagan ideals and heroes. Such in fact, to a great 
extent, is our contemporary literature; such is it, at least, 
in its most popular form, the all-pervading novel. 

4. Social Order. It cannot be denied that peace and 
order in the State are among the essential conditions to 
the progress of civilization and the prosperity of literature. 
The best guarantee of peace and order is found in a spirit 
of obedience on the part of the governed, and a spirit of 
justice on the part of the government. Now Protestantism 
stands opposed to this twofold spirit. Its very origin was 
a protest, a revolt against the highest authority on earth ; 
its essential principle, a sanction to arbitrary rule and 
despotism; and hence its effect was gradually to under¬ 
mine the basis of social order. Germany, the cradle of 
Protestantism, was frightfully mutilated by the devastating 
scourge of religious wars. The ferment of revolt, extend¬ 
ing wherever the Reformation prevailed, was everywhere a 
cause of commotion and strife. During two entire centu¬ 
ries Sweden, Denmark, and Holland, were writhing with 
anarchy. France was reduced to the verge of ruin by the 
same religious dissensions. For two-thirds of the sixteenth 
century, England groaned under religious persecutions and 
the most brutal despotism; aud, during the greater part 
of the seventeenth, she was a prey to civil wars and the 
fanaticism of sectarians. Hallam considers that the ex- 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 117 

citement of a revolutionary spirit was a consequence of 
the new doctrines, and adds: “A more immediate effect of 
overthrowing the ancient system was the growth of fanati¬ 
cism, to which, in its worst shape, the Antinomian extrav¬ 
agances of Luther yielded too great encouragement.” * 
“ A political and spiritual despotism such as that of 
Henry VIII. and of Cromwell would have been impossible 
but for the Reformation.” f It is a startling fact that, in 
every Protestant kingdom of continental Europe, absolute 
mouarchy in its most consolidated and despotic form dates 
precisely from the period of the Reformation. 

5. Civil and religious liberty. Those who look 
upon Protestantism as inseparable from public liberty, do 
not agree with Hallam and Guizot, neither of whom can be 
accused of any want of sympathy for the Reformation. Ac¬ 
cording to the former, “it is one of the fallacious views of 
the Reformation to fancy that it sprung from any notions of 
political liberty, in such a sense as we attach to the word.” J 
“In Germany,” says the latter, “far from demanding politi¬ 
cal liberty, the Reformation has accepted, I should not like 
to say political servitude, but the absence of liberty.” § 
With regard to religious liberty, let us hear Hallam 
again : “ The adherents of the Church of Rome have never 
failed to cast two reproaches on those who left them: one, 
that the reform was brought about by intemperate and 
calumnious abuse, by outrages of an excited populace, or 
by the tyranny of princes ; the other, that, after stimulating 
the most ignorant to reject the authority of the Church, it 
instantly withdrew this liberty of judgment, and devoted 
all who presumed to swerve from the line drawn by law, 
to virulent obloquy, or sometimes to bonds and death. 

♦Lit. of Europe, vol. I., p. 187, Harper’s Edit. 

f Fred. Schlegel. 7 Lit. of Europe, vol. I., p. 187. 

§ Hist. G6n. de la Civil., Leet. 12. 



118 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


These reproaches, it may be a shame for us to own, 1 can 
be uttered and cannot be refuted.’”* Our own historian 
Bancroft makes the following statement concerning reli¬ 
gious liberty in England: “ The right of correcting errors 
of religious faith became, by the suffrage of parliament, a 
branch of the royal prerogative; and, as active minds 
among the people were continually proposing new schemes 
of doctrine, a statute, alike arrogant in its pretension, 
and vindictive in its menaces, was, after great opposition in 
parliament, enacted ‘for abolishing diversity of opinions.’” 
The early history of Virginia and New England is little 
more than a record of doctrinal disputations, the bitter 
fruits of religious intolerance. 

From the facts just enumerated, the following conclusion 
forces itself upon us: that the Reformation was rather a 
retrograde than a progressive movement in the interests of 
civilization and science; and that, if literature has devel¬ 
oped so extensively in modern times, it is not in conse¬ 
quence, but in spite of the Reformation. The various 
elements of modern progress, carefully gathered together 
for centuries, had already produced great results, and the 
impulse was given for still greater, when the Reformation 
entangled the human mind in wild controversies, and es¬ 
tranged it from the Church only to lead it back gradually 
to paganism. This false direction given to the mind, of 
which we see still the unhappy consequence, belongs to the 
Reformation; whilst the life and brilliancy that characterize 
this epoch are due, as we shall show, to causes far different. 

Real causes of HUxMAN progress and literary 

IMPROVEMENT IN THE MODERN PERIOD. 

Among these causes, we place in the first rank the 
Catholic Church. She it was that saved the world from 


t Lit. of Europe, vol. I., p. 200. 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 119 

utter barbarism, when the hordes of the North were set¬ 
tling over the ruins of the old pagan civilization. She it 
was that converted and civilized one after another all the 
nations of Europe. It was her zeal for intellectual pur¬ 
suits that led to the foundation of numerous schools, and 
those famous Universities which, for depth of teaching and 
the number of students, have never been equalled. When 
the new civilization was threatened by the fanaticism of 
Islam, it was her pontiffs that first sounded the alarm, and 
united in one common cause the rival claims of European 
princes. Indeed, from St. Gregory VII. to St. Pius V., 
and from St. Pius V. to Clement XL, the popes never 
relented their efforts till the Mahometan power was first 
crippled at Lepanto, and its aggressive spirit finally broken 
under the walls of Belgrade (1111). The Crusades not 
only repelled the enemy of civilization, but proved benefi¬ 
cial at home by dissolving the feudal system, ridding Europe 
of many a petty despot, stimulating commerce, and elicit¬ 
ing a spirit of industry, enterprise, and invention. 

The decline of the feudal system and the abolition of 
slavery, by introducing a large body of men into the rank 
of citizens, contributed not a little to the general develop¬ 
ment of human resources. Under feudalism, the mass of 
the people, under the appellation of serfs, were bought 
and sold with the soil to which they were attached; but 
now their condition was gradually improved by the influ¬ 
ence of the church, until the system disappeared altogether 
from European society. 

As regards slavery, “ the spirit of the Christian religion,” 
says Bancroft, “ would, beforfe the discovery of America, 
have led to the entire abolition of the slave-trade, but for 
the hostility between the Christian Church and the followers 
of Mahomet. In the twelfth century, Pope Alexander III., 
true to the spirit of his office, . . . had written that ‘Na- 


120 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


ture having made no slaves,, all men have an equal right 
to liberty.’ It was the clergy that had broken up the 
Christian slave-markets at Bristol and Hamburg, at Lyons 
and at Rome.” * 

Another important element of human progress, also the 
work 'of the Church, were the elevation of the female 
character , and the restoration of woman to her proper 
station in society. The Church, from the first, taught the 
barbarian to treat woman not as a slave, but a companion. 
The mother, whose duties in the training of her children 
were so laborious and weighty, forgot her troubles in the 
joy of possessing the undivided affection of her spouse. 
She became the sovereign of the domestic circle, the orna¬ 
ment, and refiner of society. 

A more immediate cause of the progress of letters in 
Western Europe, must be traced to the advent in Italy 
and elsewhere, of many learned Greeks , together with 
the munificent patronage held out by the Houses of 
Medici, of Este, of Gonzaga, and especially by the Popes. 
Greek manuscripts were collected at great expense, and 
buildings’erected to preserve these treasures and the monu¬ 
ments of art that survived the ravages of the barbarians. 
As early as the middle of the fifteenth century, the Yatican 
Library enriched, if not founded, by Pope Nicholas Y., 
possessed no fewer than 5000 volumes, many of which were 
of the greatest value. This zeal for letters and the general 
revival created a galaxy of geniuses in the golden age of 
Leo X., very properly styled the second Augustan age of 
Roman literature, when 

‘ A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung. ’ 

Elsewhere also, as in Spain, in Portugal, and in France, 
three countries where the Reformation did not succeed in 


* Ilist. of the U. S. vol. 1, pp. 1G3 and 165. 



TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


121 


implanting itself, there was a general outburst of enthusi¬ 
asm for letters, which, indeed, might have been fatal to 
Christian ideas without the directing hand of the Church. 

Finally, what contributed most of all to the development 
of literature in modern times, was that wonderful inven¬ 
tion of the art of printing, the authors of which, according 
to the more common opinion of learned men, were Faust, 
Schoeffer, and Gutenberg, at Metz, about the year 1440. 
Printing by hand was known long before, even as far back 
as the tenth century, but was of little advantage, owing to 
the slowness of the process and the scarcity of paper. The 
invention of the printing press, at a time when paper had 
become cheaper and more common, afforded unprecedented 
facilities for the prosecution of literary studies. Before 
the close of the fifteenth century, it is said that 10,000 
editions of works, of which the classics formed a consid¬ 
erable number, were printed in Europe. Of these works, 
Italy had the honor of publishing nearly one-half; while 
a very small number, (not exceeding one hundred and 
fifty,) were printed in England. Of the Vulgate, Hallam 
mentions ninety-one editions, and of Virgil, ninety-five. 
We find 291 editions of the writings of Cicero. These 
numbers, it must be remembered; relate not to single 
volumes ; but to whole editions of the works, varying from 
225 to 550 copies, or more, for each edition. If we take 
the latter number as the basis of our calculation, and apply 
it to the works of Cicero alone, the result is that above 
160,000 copies of the writings of this elegant author were 
brought into circulation during the last quarter of the fif¬ 
teenth century. 

In England, the example set by Wm. Caxton, who first 
introduced the press there in 1447, was eagerly followed 
by others. Not only the classic works of Roman and Gre¬ 
cian genius, but the popular writings of modern Italy and 

11 



122 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


France, were translated and widely circulated. Thus a 
taste for general reading and information was excited and 
fostered in all classes of society. The language itself soon 
felt the benefit of the new impulse, and was enriched by a 
great variety of words drawn from the ancient and modern 
tongues. Better models of thought and style were intro¬ 
duced, and the quaint untutored phraseology of our earliest 
authors yielded to the more correct diction and polished 
periods of subsequent writers. Yet this movement was 
considerably retarded by the religious commotions of the 
kingdom during the reigns of Henry VIII. and his two 
successors. When the nation had become more indifferent 
to the old worship, and the general quiet was undisturbed 
by the patient endurance of Catholics under a relentless 
and bloody persecution, then England was able to enjoy 
the golden age of her literature. 


Tiie Augustan Age of English Literature. 

The original works brought forth in the beginning of 
the Modern Period of English literature, have been aptly 
compared to the productions of a soil for the first time 
broken up, when all indigenous plants spring up at once 
with a rank and irrepressible fertility, and display whatever 
is peculiar and excellent in their nature, on a scale the 
most conspicuous and magnificent. In point of force and 
originality of genius, the 40 or 50 years that elapsed from 
the middle of Elizabeth’s reign to the civil war, may be 
considered as unsurpassed. In that short interval are to 
be found the greatest names in our literature—Shaks- 
peare, Spenser, Bacon,—whilst a host of others, inferior to 
these, yet share in the glory of having imparted to our 
language its classical structure. We must admit, however, 
that the epoch was tainted by a straining after false wit, 






TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


123 


which exhibited itself iti extravagant conceits, puns, and 
quibbles. This bad taste, which took the name of 
Euphuism,* became so fashionable as to find its way even 
into the best writings of the age. 

The Civil War, Protectorate, and Restoration. 

The interval which begins with the Civil War and 
terminates with the 17 th century, was not in the main 
favorable to literature. During the broils that agitated 
the nation, men could not be expected to cultivate letters 
with ardor or success. Under the Protectorate, triumphant 
Puritanism was looked upon as a declared enemy by poets, 
wits, and artists. Now with the Restoration came in a 
looseness of manners which threatened to be more dan¬ 
gerous than even the overstrained rigidity of the Puritans. 
Finally, through the whole century Euphuism exerted a 
baleful influence and developed itself into what has been 
called, by some, the Metaphysical, by others, the Fantas¬ 
tical school, chiefly represented by Cowley, Donne, and 
Waller. Yet, Milton the puritan, and Dry den the royalist, 
kept free from the contagion: the former gave to the 
world his long-cherished epic, the greatest poem of which 
our language can boast; the latter, besides the other 
displays of his versatile genius, delivered his withering 
satire and matchless prose. 

The Eighteenth Century. 

The period of Queen Anne (1102-1714) was for a long 
time celebrated as the Augustan age of English literature. 
The present age has not confirmed this opinion, but 

* Evtyvj/c, of good figure. Euphucs is the principal character in two 
famous works of John Lyly (1554-1603), who deserves to be called the parent 
of Euphuism. 



124 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


awarded its preference to the Elizabethan period. Jeffrey 
only stated the prevailing sentiment, when he wrote the 
following: “Speaking generally of that generation of 
authors, it may be said that, as poets, they had no force or 
greatness of fancy, no pathos and no enthusiasm; and, as 
philosophers, no comprehensiveness, depth, or originality. 
They are sagacious, no doubt, neat, clear, and reasonable ; 
but for the most part cold, timid, and superficial.” To 
Pope and Addison, however, the incontestable merit still 
remains of having imparted to the language a refinement 
and a polish, which up to their time were still wanting. 

Under the first two Georges (1714—1T60), we meet with 
some minor poems of great excellence, as the hardly-sur¬ 
passed lyrics of Collins and Gray, and some original 
productions, as Thomson’s Seasons ; yet, a spirit of servile 
imitation of Pope and Addison generally prevails. 

During the reign of George III. (1760-1820), Johnson 
for twenty years holds the dictatorial sway, while at his 
side, with more modest pretentions, Goldsmith writes 
simpler but inimitable prose and exquisite poetry. Hume, 
Robertson, and Gibbon, introduce History in a more 
brilliant garb than she had yet assumed before the English 
public. At the same time, the American War, by exciting 
the eloquence of Chatham and Burke, awakened the nation 
to a sense of justice which the government seemed not to 
comprehend. Finally, the poet Cowper, by portraying 
with graphic power and originality the distinguishing 
features of English life and scenery, sent a thrill of enthu¬ 
siasm through every British home. 

The Nineteenth Century. 

The nineteenth century brought with it many illustrious 
names, and accelerated progress in every department of 
literature. Byron, Scott, Moore 3 Campbell, Southey, and 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 125 

Wordsworth, were the best representatives of poetry in the 
early part, as Tennyson is in the deeline, of this century. 
In fiction, Sir Walter Scott has not been surpassed, though 
followed by an ever-growing crowd of more or less suc¬ 
cessful imitators; and the issue of novels has taken such 
proportions as to equal the amount of all other branches 
of literature combined. In criticism, a new era may be 
dated from the establishment of the Edinburgh Review. 
In history, biography, and art-literature, a vast activity 
prevails, illustrating the enquiring spirit of the age. 
Every source of information is sought after, every principle 
is subjected to criticism and discussion; while literary 
journals and cheap editions of old and new books pour 
forth more than abundant supply for every variety of taste. 
So enormous is the expansion which literature has received 
that future historians, when they will have descended to 
our times, will be forced, in order to do complete justice to 
their subject, to institute a careful classification among the 
products of the mind, and avoid an unsatisfactory vague¬ 
ness by separate treatment of the movement and growth of 
literature in its various departments. 

ROBERT SOUTHWELL, 1560-1595. 

This charming Christian poet, who was a victim of reli¬ 
gious persecution, was born at St. Faith’s, Norfolk, in 1560, 
of an ancient and respectable Catholic family. His early 
years are represented as giving promise of future excel¬ 
lence. Obedience to his parents, docility to his instructors, 
and gentleness to all, won him every heart. He was sent 
at an early age to the English college at Douay, and thence 
to Rome, where he was enrolled among the children of St. 
Ignatius. In 1584, he was ordained priest. In 1586, lie 
was, at his earnest request, sent as a missionary to his 
11 * 


• 126 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


native country, and was made chaplain to the countess of 
Arundel. Whilst in the faithful discharge of his sacred 
duties, he was apprehended by the agent of Queen Eliza¬ 
beth, kept for three years in a loathsome prison, and after 
being repeatedly and barbarously tortured, was executed 
at Tyburn, in 1595. “ This whole proceeding/” says Cleve¬ 
land, “should cover the authors of it with everlasting in¬ 
famy. There was not a particle of evidence at his trial, 
that this pious and accomplished poet meditated any evil 
designs against the government.’ 7 Conscious of suffering 
in the best of causes, he met death without terror, and with 
the heroism of a martyr. His writings, although composed 
in prison, exhibit no trace of angry feeling agaiust any 
human being or any human institution. The constant 
themes of both his prose and verse are life’s uncertainty 
and the world's vanity, the crimes and follies of humanity, 
the consolations and glories of religion. We have from 
his classic pen fifty-five beautiful poems. They were very 
popular in his time, as many as eleven editions having been 
published between 1593 and 1600. 

Ben Jonson has expressed his admiration of Southwell, 
and praised the Burning Babe as a poem of great beauty. 
“ Southwell,” says Angus, “ shows in his poetry great sim¬ 
plicity and elegance of thought, and still greater purity of 
language. He has been compared in some of his pieces to 
Goldsmith, and the comparison seems not unjust. There 
is in both the same naturalness of sentiment, the same pro¬ 
priety of expression, and the same ease and harmony of 
versification ; while there is in him a force and compactness 
of thought, with occasional quaintness not often found in 
the more modern poet.” But the prose of Southwell is 
not less charming than his poetry. The Triumph over 
Death , written on the character of Lady Sackville, and 
Mamj Magdalen's Funeral Tears , are among his best 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 127 

prose pieces. His beautiful lines on the death of Mary 
Queen of Scots, may not inaptly be applied to himself: 

Some things more perfect are in their decay, 

Like spark that going out gives clearest light; 

Such was my hap, whose doleful dying day 
Began my joy, and termed Fortune’s spite. 

Hue not my death, rejoice at my repose ; 

It was no death to me, hut to my woe : 

The bud was opened to let out the rose ; 

The chains unloosed to let the captive go. 

Dangers of Delay. 

* ft 

Shun delays, they breed remorse ; 

Use thy time while time is lent thee ; 

Creeping snails make little course, 

Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee. 

Good is best when soonest wrought, 

Ling’ring labors come to nought. 

Hoist up sail while gale doth last, 

Tide and wind stay no man’s leisure ; 

Seek not time when time is past; 

Sober speed is wisdom’s leisure. 

After-wit is dearl} r bought, 

Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought. 

Time wears all his locks before, 

Take thy hold or else beware, 

When he flies he turns no more, 

And behind his scalp is bare. 

W'orks adjourned have many stays, 

Long demurs breed new delays. 

Seek the salve while sore is green, 

Festered wounds ask deeper lancing ; 

After-cures are seldom seen, 

Often sought, but rarely chancing. 

Time and place give best advice, 

Out of season, out of price. 


128 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Drops will pierce the stubborn flint, 

Not by force, but often falling; 

Custom kills by feeble dint, 

More by use than strength enthralling. 
Single sands have little weight, 

Many make a drowning freight. 

Times go by Turns. 

The lopped tree in time may grow again, 

Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; 
The sorriest wight may find release of pain, 

The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: 
Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, 
From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. 

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow ; 

She draws her favours to the lowest ebb: 

Her tides have equal times to come and go; 

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web: 
No joy so great but runneth to an end, 

No hap so hard but'may in fine amend. 

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring; 

Not endless night, yet not eternal day: 

The saddest birds a season find to sing; 

The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. 

Thus, with succeeding turns God tempereth all, 
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. 

A chance may win that by mischance was lost; 

That net that holds no great takes little fish; 

In some things all, in all things none are cross’d; 

Few all they need, but none have all they wish. 
Unmingled joys here to no man befall; 

Who least, liatlrsome ; who most, hath never all. 


TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


129 


Scorn not the Least. 

'Where words are weak, and foes encountering strong, 
Where mightier do assault than do defend, 

The feebler part puts up enforced wrong, 

And silent sees that speech could not amend; 

Yet higher powers must think, though they repine, 

When sun is set, the little stars will shine. 

While pike doth range, the silly tench doth fly, 

And crouch in privy creeks with smaller fish ; 

Yet pikes are caught when little fish go hy, 

Xhese fleet afloat, while those do fill the dish ; 

There is a time even for the worms to creep, 

And suck the dew while all their foes do sleep. 

The merlin cannot ever soar on high, 

Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the chase ; 

The tender lark will find a time to fly, 

And fearful hare to run a quiet race. 

He that high growth on cedars did bestow, 

Gave also lowly mushrooms leave to grow. 

In Haman's pomp poor Mardocheus wept, 

Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe; 

The Lazar pin’d, while Dives’ feast was kept, 

Yet he to heaven—to hell did Dives go. 

W~e trample grass, and prize the flowers of May ; 

Yet grass is green when flowers do fade away. 

The Burning* Babe. 

As I in hoary winter’s night 
Stood shivering in the snow, 

Surprised I was with sudden heat, 

Which made my heart to glow ; 

And lifting up a fearful eye 
To view what fire was near, 

A pretty Babe all burning bright, 

Did in the air appear; 


130 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


"Who, scorched with excessive heat, 

Such floods of tears did shed, 

As though his floods should quench his flames, 
Which with his tears were bred. 

‘ Alas !’ quoth he, 1 hut newly born, 

In fiery heats I fry, 

Yet none approach to warm their hearts 
Or feel my fire, but I ; 

My faultless breast the furnace is, 

The fuel, wounding thorns ; 

Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, 

The ashes, shames and scorns ; 

The fuel justice layeth on, 

And mercy blows the coals, 

The metal in this furnace wrought 
Are men’s defiled souls : 

For which, as now on fire I am, 

To work them to their good, 

So will I melt into a bath, 

To wash them in my blood.’ 

With this he vanished out of sight, 

And swiftly shrunk away, 

And straight I called unto my mind 
That it was Christmas day. 

\ 

Opening Addrkss to the Holy Innocents. 

Joy, infant saints, cropped in the tender flower! 

Long is their life that die in blissful hour; 

Too long they live, that live till they be nought: 

Life saved by sin is purchase dearly bought. 

Your fate the pen of Angels should rehearse : 

Whom spotless, death in cradle rocked asleep; 

Sweet roses mixed with lilies strewed your hearse, 

Death virgin-white in martj^r-red did steep. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


131 


Mary Magdalene's Tears. 

But fear not, Blessed Mary, for thy tears will obtain. They 
are too mighty orators to let thy suit fall; and though they pleaded 
at the most rigorous bar, yet have they so persuading a silence 
and so conquering a complaint, that, by yielding, they overcome, 
and, by entreating, they command. They tie the tongues of all 
accusers, and soften the rigor of the severest judge. Yea, they 
win the invincible and bind the omnipotent. "When they seem 
most pitiful they have greatest power, and being most forsaken 
they are more victorious. Repentant eyes are the cellars of an¬ 
gels, and penitent tears their sweetest wines, which the savor of 
life perfum-eth, the taste of grace sweetenetli, and the purest color 
of returning innocency highly beautifieth. This dew of devotion 
never failcth, but the sun of justice draweth it up, and upon what 
face soever it droppeth, it makes it amiable in God's eye. For 
this water hath thy heart been long a limbeck, sometimes distill¬ 
ing it out of the weeds of thy own offences with the fire of true 
contrition ; sometimes out of the flowers of spiritual comforts with 
the flames of contemplation ; and now out of the bitter herbs of 
thy master’s miseries with the heat of a tender compassion. This 
water hath better graced thy looks than thy former alluring 
glances. It has settled worthier beauties in thy^ face than all thy 
artificial paintings. Yea, this only water hath quenched God’s 
anger, qualified his justice, recovered his mercy, merited his love, 
purchased his pardon, and brought forth the spring of all thy 
favor. * * * Till death dam up the springs, thy tears shall 
never cease running ; and then shall thy soul be ferried in them 
to the harbor of life, that, as by them it was first passed from sin 
to grace, so in them it may be wafted from grace to glory. 

Life has no ‘Unmeddled’ Joy. 

There is in this world continual interchange of pleasing and 
greeting accidence, still keeping their succession of times, and 
overtaking each other in their several courses ; no picture can be 
all drawn of the brightest colors, nor a harmony consorted only 
of trebles ; shadows are needful in expressing of proportions, and 
the bass is a principal part in perfect music ; the condition here 


132 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


alloweth no unmeddled joy; our whole life is temperate between 
sweet and sour, and we must all look for a mixture of both : the 
wise so wish: better that they still think of worse, accepting the 
one, if it come, with liking, and bearing the other without impa¬ 
tience, being so much masters of each other’s fortunes, that neither 
shall work them to excess. The dwarf groweth not on the high¬ 
est hill, nor the tall man losetb not his height in the lowest valley ; 
and as a base mind, though most at ease, will be dejected, so a 
resolute virtue in the deepest distress is most impregnable. 

(From a dedication of some Poems.) 

Poets, by abusing their talents, and making the follies and 
feignings of love the customary subject of their base endeavors, 
have so discredited this faculty, that a poet, a lover, and a liar, 
are by many reckoned but three words of one signification. The 
devil, as he affecteth deity and seeketh to have all the compli¬ 
ments of divine honor applied to his service, so hath he, among 
the rest, possessed also most poets with idle fancies. And, because 
the best course to let them see the error of their works, is to weave 
a new web in their own loom, I have here laid a few coarse 
threads together, to invite some skillfuller wits to go forward in 
the same, or to begin some finer piece, wherein it may be seen 
how well verse and virtue suit together. With many good wishes 
I send you these few ditties, 

EDMUND SPENSER, 1553-1599. 

Edmund Spenser, author of The Fairie Queene, and 
called by Campbell the Rubens of English poetry, was born 
in London in the year 1553. Of his parentage little is 
known. In 1569, he entered as a sizar at Pembroke College, 
Cambridge. On leaving the University, he retired to the 
north of England, where he composed part of the Sliep- 
perd's Calender , a pastoral, or rather a piece of polemical 
and party divinity, completed in 1579 in twelve eclogues. 
It was admired in his time ; but it soon lost its popularity 
on account of the obselete, uncouth phrases with which it 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


133 


abounds, and which Dryden termed the Chaucerisms of 
Spenser. His Mother Hubbard's Tale , a political satire, 
represents the middle age of Spenser’s genius, if not of 
his life ; that stage of his mental and poetical progress, in 
which the higher sense of the beautiful had not yet been 
fully developed. In this poem, we still find both his puri- 
tanism and his imitation of Chaucer, two things which 
disappear altogether in his later poetry. The following 
well-known complaint of a court expectant, taken from this 
piece, probably describes too well the vicissitudes of his 
own life: 

Full little knowest thou that hast not tried, 

"What hell it is in suing long to bide, 

To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow, 

To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow, 

To have thy prince’s grace, yet want his peers’; 

To have thy asking, yet wait many years; 

To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares 
To eat thy heart through comfortless despairs ; 

To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run, 

To spend, to give, to wait, to be undone. 

His great poem, T7?c Fairie Queene, was given to the 
world in detached portions, and at long intervals of time, 
the last three books-appearing in 1596. It is an extended 
allegory, with images drawn from the popular notions con¬ 
cerning fairies. The poet represents the Fairie Queen as 
holding her solemn annual feast during^twelve days, on 
each of which a perilous adventure is undertaken by some 
particular knight, each of twelve knights typifying some 
moral virtue. The first is the Knight of the Red Cross, 
representing Holiness; the second is Sir Guyon, or Tem¬ 
perance ; the third, Britomartis, representing Chastity ; 
the fourth, Cambel and Triamond, or Friendship; the 
fifth, Artegal, or Justice; the sixth, Sir Calidore, or Cour- 
12 


134 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


tesy. What the other six books would have been, we have 
no means of knowing; for the poet did not live to com¬ 
plete his original design. The Queen Gloriana is symboli¬ 
cal of Queen Elizabeth, and the adventures of the Red 
Cross Knight shadow forth the history of the Church of 
England. 

Spenser is considered the most luxuriant and melodious 
versifier in the English language. His creation of scenes 
and objects is wonderful; and in free and sonorous versifi¬ 
cation he has not yet been surpassed. The Spenserian 
stanza is the Italian ottava rima, consisting of eight deca¬ 
syllabic verses, to which an Alexandrine is added. His 
lofty rhyme has a swell and cadence and continuous sweet¬ 
ness, that we can find nowhere else. “ Many of his words, 0 
says Campbell, “ deserve reviving ; and, though the forms 
are sometimes obsolete, the language is, as a whole, beau¬ 
tiful in its antiquity; and, like the moss and ivy in some 
majestic building, covers the fabric of the poem with 
romantic and venerable associations. 0 

His faults arose out of the fullness of his riches. His 
inexhaustible powers of circumstantial description betrayed 
him into a tedious minuteness; and, in the painting of 
natural objects, led him to group together trees and plants, 
and assemble sounds and instruments, which were never 
seen or jieard in unison out of Fairie Land. The great 
length of the poem, its allegorical form, added to the real 
and affected obsoleteness of the language, may indeed deter 
readers in general from a complete perusal; but it will 
always be resorted to by the genuine lovers of poetry, as a 
rich store-house of invention. 

In 1597, Spenser laid before the Queen his View of the 
State of Ireland , in which he recommends some severe 
measures for the ‘ Land of Ire/ and suggests that they 
should be blended with measures likely to conciliate popu- 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


135 


lar favor. But the advice came too late. Tyrconnel’s 
rebellion broke out; the Castle of Kilcolman, the poet’s 
residence, was burnt, and an infant child of the poet, ‘ new¬ 
born,’ Ben Jonson says, was left behind and perished in 
the flames. Spenser died impoverished and broken-hearted 
in the year 1599, and was buried near the tomb of Chaucer 
in Westminster Abbey. 

The Cave of Mammon. 

From The Faerie Queene, B. II., C. vii. 

At length they came into a larger space 
That stretch’d itself into an ample plain, 

Through which a beaten broad highway did trace 
That straight did lead to Pluto’s grisly reign, 

By that way’s side there sat infernal pain, 

And fast beside him sat tumultuous strife. 

The one in hand an iron whip did strain, 

The other brandished a bloody knife, 

And both did gnash their teeth and both did threaten Life. 

Before the door sat self-consuming Care, 

Day and night keeping wary watch and ward, 

Por fear lest Force or Fraud should unaware 
Break in, and spoil the treasure there in guard ; 

Nor would he suffer Sleep once thither-ward 
Approach, although his drowsy den were next, 

For next to death is sleep to be compared; 

Therefore his house is unto his annexed; 

Here Sleep, there Riches, and hell-gate them betwixt . . . 

That house’s form within was rude and strong, 

Like a huge cave hewn out of rocky clift, 

From whose rough vault the ragged branches hung 
Embost with massy gold of glorious gift, 

And with rich metal loaded every rift, 

That heavy ruin they did seem to threat; 

And over them Arachne high did lift 
Her cunning web, and spread her subtle net, 

Enwrapped in foul smoke^ and clouds more black than jet. 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Both roof and floor, and walls were all of gold, 

But overgrown with dust and old decay, 

And hid in darkness, that none could behold 
The hue thereof; for view of cheerful day 
Did never in that house itself display, 

But a faint shadow of uncertain light; 

Such as a lamp, whose life does fade away; 

Or as the moon, clothed with cloudy night, 

Does show to him that walks in fear and sad affright. 

In all that room was nothing to be seen, 

But huge great iron chests and coffers strong, 

All barr’d with double bands, that none could ween 
Them to enforce by violence or wrong; 

On every side they placed were along; 

But all the ground with skulls was scattered, 

And dead men’s bones, which round about were flun 
"Whose lives (it seemed) whilome there were shed, 
And their vile carcases now left unburied. 

They forward pass, nor Guyon yet spake word, 

Till that they came unto an iron door, 

"Which to them open’d of its own accord, 

And show’d of riches such exceeding store, 

As eye of man did never see before, 

Nor ever could within one place be found, 

Though all the wealth which is, or was of yore, 
Could gathered be through all the world around, 
And that above were added to that under ground. 

The care of Angels oyer us. 

From The Fcerie Queene , B. II., c. viii. 

And is there care in Heaven ? And is there love 
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, 

That may compassion of their evils move ? 

There is:—else much more wretched were the case 
Of men than beasts : but O ! th’ exceeding grace 
Of highest God, that loves his creatures so, 

And all his works with mercy doth embrace, 

That blessed angels he sends to and fro, 

To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe ! 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


137 


How oft do they their silver bowers leave 
To come to succour us that succour want! 

How oft do they with golden pinions cleave 
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant, 

Against foul fiends to aid us militant! 

They for us fight, they watch and duly ward, 

And their bright squadrons round about us plant; 

And all for love and nothing for reward : 

O, why should heavenly God to men have such regard? 

Sweet tempered with Sour. 

Sonnet xxvi. 

A * 

Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere ;* 

Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough ; 

Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh near ; 

Sweet is the firbloom, but his branches rough; 

Sweet is the Cyprus, but his rind is tough ; 

Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill; 

Sweet is the broom flower, but yet sour enough ; 

And sweet is moly f, but his root is ill : 

So, every sweet with sour is tempered still; 

That maketh it be coveted the more : 

For easy things that may be got at will 
Most sorts of men do set but little store. 

“Why then should I account of little pain 
That endless pleasure shall unto me again ? 

True Beauty. 

Sonnet lxxix. 

Men call you fair, and you do credit it, 

For that yourself you daily such do see ; 

But the true fair, that is the gentle wit 

And virtuous mind, is much more praised of me. 

For all the rest, however fair it be, 

Shall turn to naught, and lose that glorious hue ; 

But only that is permanent and free 

From all frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue. 


12* 


* brier. 


fa sort of wild garlic. 




133 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


That is true beauty, that doth argue you 
To he divine, and born of heavenly seed; 

Deriv’d from that fair spirit from whom all true 
And perfect beauty did at first proceed. 

He only fair, and what he fair hath made; 

All other fair, like flowers untimely fade. 

Description of a Butterfly. 

From The Fate of a Butterfly. 

He the gay .garden round about doth fly, 

From bed to bed, from one to other border, 

And takes survey, with curious, busy eye, 

Of every flower and herb there set in order ; 

Now this, now that, he tastetb tenderly, 

Yet none of them he rudely doth disorder, 

Nor with his feet their silken leaves deface, 

But feeds upon the pleasures of each place, 

And evermore, with most variety 

And change of sweetness (for all change is sweet), 

He seeks his dainty sense to gratify; 

Now sucking of the juice of herbs most meet, 

Or of the dew which yet on them doth lie, 

Now in the same bathing his tender feet; 

And then he perchetli on some bank thereby 
To sun himself, and his moist wings to dry. 

THOMAS SACKVILLE, 1536-1608. 

Thomas Sackville, better known as Lord Buckhurst and 
Earl of Dorset, an accomplished statesman and poet, 
was born in Sussex in 1536. He studied first at the 
University of Oxford, and afterwards removed to Cam¬ 
bridge. At both universities, he was distinguished for his 
performances in Latin and English poetry. In the history 
of the language, his poetical genius entitles him to be 
considered as forming a connecting link between Chaucer 
and Spenser, between the Canterbury Tales and The 
Fairie Queene. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


139 


His tragedy of Gorboduc is a sanguinary story drawn 
from early British history, composed with little pathos or 
attention to dramatic rules, but with considerable force of 
poetical conception and moral sentiment. It is full of 
illustrations of the present from the past. It discusses the 
blessings of peace and settled government, the folly of 
popular risings, and the evils of a doubtful succession. 
As a poet, ‘Sackville handled the heroic stanza with great 
success, and gave the first example of regular tragedy in 
blank verse.* 

Of a *poem entitled the Mirror for Magistrates, 
intended to give a view of the illustrious but unfortunate 
characters in English history, he finished only a poetical 
preface, or Induction, and one legend, the Life of the 
Duke of Buckingham. “His Induction consists of a few 
hundred lines; and even in these, there is a monotony of 
gloom and sorrow, which prevents us from wishing it to be 
longer. It is truly styled by Campbell a landscape on 
which the sun never shines.” f The plan and idea of the 
poem appear to have been borrowed from a Latin work of 
Boccacio, which had been translated and versified many 
years before by Lydgate, under the title of the Fall of 
Princes. The poet is musing sadly over nature’s decay 
and man’s infirmity. Sorrow appears to him in bodily 
form, and leads him into the world of the dead. Within 
the porch of that dread abode is seen a terrible group of 
shadowy forms, among whom are Remorse, Revenge, 
Misery, Care, Sleep, War, and Death. These are the 
rulers of the realm below, where the mighty and unfor¬ 
tunate dead stalk in solemn procession past the poet and 
his conductor. J 


*The Earl of Surrey (1516-1547) was the first that introduced into English 
poetry blank verse, which he employed in translating the second and the 
fourth book of the iEneid. 
fHallam’s Lit* of Europe, vol. I, p. 316. 


JSpalding’s Eng. Lit., p. 183. 



140 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


There hung on Sackville’s genius not only gloom of 
despondency, but a ghastly complexion caught up from 
the lurid flames of religious persecution. He was one of 
the judicial tribunal that pronounced the doom of Mary 
Stuart; and the parliament, after having confirmed the 
sentence, commissioned him to bear the sad news to the 
unfortunate queen. He also sat in judgment on the Earl 
of Essex. 

On the accession of James L, he was created Earl of 
Dorset. He died suddenly at the council-table in April 
1608, at an advanced age. 

Allegorical Personages in Hkll. 

From the Mirror for Magistrates. 

And first within the porch and jaws of hell 
Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent* 

'With tears ; and to herself oft would she tell 
Her wretchedness, and cursing never stentf 
To sob and sigh ; but ever thus lament 
With thoughtful care, as she that all in vain 
Would wear and waste continually in pain. 

Her eyes unstedfast, rolling here and there, 

Whirl’d on each place, as place that vengeance brought; 

So was her mind continually in fear, 

Toss’d and tormented by the tedious thought 
Of those detested crimes which she had wrought: 

With dreadful cheer and looks thrown to the sky 
Wishing for death ; and yet she could not die. 
******** 

And next within the entry of this lake 
Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire, 

Devising means how she may vengeance take, 

Never in rest till she have her desire ; 

But frets within so far forth with the. fire 
Of wreaking flames, that now determines she 
To die by death, or venged by death to be. 


* besprinkled. 


t stopped. 




TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


141 


When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence, 

Had showed herself, as next in order set, 

With trembling limbs we softly parted thence, 

Till in our eyes another sight we met; 

When from my heart a sigh forthwith I fet,* 

Ruing, alas ! upon the woeful plight 
Of Misery, that next appear’d in sight. 

Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad.f 
With visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued : 

In his right hand a naked sword he had, 

That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued ; 

And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued) 

Famiife and fire he held, and therewithal 
He razed towns and threw down towers and all; 

Cities he sack’d, and realms (that whilom flower’d 
In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest) 

He overwhelm’d, and all their fame devour’d, 
Consum’d, destroy’d, wasted, and never ceas’d, 

Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppress’d : 

His face forehewed with wounds ; and by his side 
There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide. 

Midnight. 

Midnight was come, and every vital thing 
With sweet sound sleep their weary limbs did rest; 

The beasts were still, the little birds that sing, 

Now sweetly slept, beside their mother’s breast, 

The old and all well shrouded in their nest; 

The waters calm, the cruel seas did cease, 

The woods, and fields, and all things held their peace. 

The golden stars were whirled amid their race, 

And on the earth did laugh with twinkling light, 

When each thing nestled in his resting-place, 

Forgot day’s pain with pleasure of the night: 

The bare had not the greedy hounds in sight, 

The fearful deer of death stood not in doubt, 

The partridge dream’d not of the falcon’s foot. 


* fetched. 


f clothed. 




142 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


The ugly bear now minded not the stake, 

Nor how the cruel mastiffs do him tear ; 

The stag lay still unroused from the brake ; 

The foamy boar feared not the hunter’s spear : 

All things were still in desert, bush, and brere. 

“ The quiet heart, now from their travails rest,” 

Soundly they slept, in most of all their rest. 

The Early Drama and Dramatists. 

A good Drama is, in the words of Jeffrey, a story told 
by action and dialogue, where the spirit and style of the 
speeches allotted to each character are well distinguished 
from the others, and are true to that particular character 
and to nature. All nations have probably amused them¬ 
selves with oral or with scenic representations. The 
games of children abound in both. Every parable is a 
dramatic picture; and men of vivid imagination and of 
forcible utterance naturally describe and embellish their 
thoughts dramatically. It would appear that, at the dawn 
of modern civilization, most countries of Christian Europe 
possessed a rude kind of theatrical entertainment, not like 
the plays of ancient Greece and Rome ; but representing 
the principal supernatural events of the Old and the New 
Testament, or of the history of the Saints, whence they 
Were denominated Myracles , or Myracle Plays. Orig¬ 
inally they appear to have been acted under the immediate 
management of the clergy, who are understood to have 
deemed them favorable to the diffusion of religious feeling. 

Next to these, come the Moralities, or Moral plays, of 
a somewhat later age. In them, sentiments and abstract 
ideas, such as Mercy, Truth, etc., are represented by 
persons; and scope is afforded for ingenuity in the delinea¬ 
tion of characters and the assigning of appropriate speeches 
to each. These moralities can be traced to about the 
middle of the fifteenth century; and they abounded in the 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 143 

reign of Henry VIII., when acting first became a distinct 
profession. 

The revival of learning had made men familiar with the 
classic models of ancient Greece and Rome. Plautus and 
Terence found an imitator in Nicholas Udall, who pub¬ 
lished, no later than 1551, his Ralph Roister Bolster , the 
earliest-known English comedy. It is written in rhyming 
lines of long and irregular measure. The scene is in Lon¬ 
don, and the characters, thirteen in number, exhibit the 
i manners of the middle orders of the people of that day. 

Tragedy, of later origin than comedy, came directly from 
the more elevated portion of the moral plays, and from the 
pure models of antiquity. The oldest specimen of this 
kind of composition is the tragedy of Gorboduc, composed 
partly by Sackville, and played before Queen Elizabeth at 
Whitehall, in 1561. It consists of five acts, and observes 
some of the more useful rules of the classic drama of anti¬ 
quity, to which it bears resemblance in the introduction of 
a chorus—that is, a person or persons whose business it is 
to intersperse the play with moral observations and infer¬ 
ences, expressed in lyrical stanzas. Not long after the 
appearance of Gorboduc , both tragedies and comedies had 
become common ; and, between the years 1568 and 1580, 
no fewer than fifty-two dramas were acted at court, under 
the superintendence of the Master of the Revels. 

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, 1564-1616. 

William Shakspeare, the greatest of modern poets, na¬ 
ture’s oracle and interpreter, was born in 1564 at Strat- 
ford-on-Avon, a market-town in Warwickshire. Of his 
early life and education, almost as little is known as of 
Homer himself. He came to London in his twenty-second 
year, and connected himself with the stage first as an actor, 





144 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


then as an author. Though not a classical scholar, he had 
probably read numerous translations of ancient works; 
the romances, tales, legends of the time ; also, the histories 
and biographies then extant, lie took his words from the 
common people, from all classes in the busy scenes of life, 
aud from the popular books of his day. “ The polite.” 
says Dr. Johnson, “are always catching modish innova¬ 
tions, and the learned depart from established forms of 
speech in hope of finding or making better ; those who 
wish for distinction, forsake the vulgar, when the vulgar is 
right; but there is a conversation above grossness and 
below refinement, where propriety resides, and where this 
poet seems to have gathered his comic dialogue. He is, 
therefore, more agreeable to the ears of the present age 
than any other author equally remote; and, among his 
other excellencies, deserves to be studied as one of the 
original masters of our language.” 

His first play, Pericles , Prince of Tyre , written about 
1590, met with unexampled success. He continued to 
write until two years before his death, which occurred in 
his native place in 1616. Of the forty-three dramatic 
pieces ascribed to him, seven are considered as spurious 
by English commentators; but German critics regard 
them as genuine. The remaining thirty-six may be divi¬ 
ded into three classes: comedies, tragedies, and chroni¬ 
cle plays. 

Of the fourteen comedies, the plots of five: The Tam- 
ing - of the Shrew, (in part,) The Merchant of Venice , j 
AIVs Well that Ends Well, Much Ado about Nothing, J 
Measure for Measure —are Italian ;—two are classical: 
The Comedy of Errors, and the Twelfth Night, taken j 
from Plautus. Of the remaining seven, the plots of two— 
Midsummer Night's Dream, and As You Dike It —are j 
from mediaeval sources ; that of The Two Gentlemen of I 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 145 

Verona is Spanish ; that of The Merry Wives of Windsor 
is English, and that of Love's Labour's Lost is apparently 
French; while those of The Winter's Tale and The 
Tempest are of unknown origin. 

Of the plots of Shakspeare’s twelve tragedies, five— 
Timon of Athens, Pericles, Julius Caesar, Antony and 
Cleopatra, and Coriolanus —are classical; two— Hamlet, 
and Troilus and Cressida —are mediaeval; two— Romeo 
and Juliet, and Othello are Italian ; and three— Cymbe - 
line, Lear, and Macbeth —are from the legendary history 
of Britain. For the material of his classical tragedies, 
Shakspeare is supposed to have depended chiefly on North’s 
translation of Plutarch’s Lives. 

His chronicle plays are ten in number: King John, 
King Richard the Second, two of King Henry the Fourth, 
King Henry the Fifth, three of King Henry the Sixth, 
Richard the Third, and King Henry the Eighth. These 
historical plays commence, in the chronological order, with 
King John, and end with Henry VIII., omitting, however, 
the reigns of Henry III., the four Edwards, and Henry 
VII. They are generally based on the facts of history, 
and exhibit so truthfully and clearly the principal features 
of the events, their causes, even their secret springs, that 
Coleridge deems them a better help to the knowledge of 
history for the periods over which they extend, than any 
other writings. The living pictures make an impression 
on the imagination which can never be effaced. It is gen¬ 
erally admitted that the Chronicles of Holinshed and Hall 
both influenced the style of Shakspeare, and furnished him 
with biographical and historical facts, as well as with the 
ground-work of his tragedy of Macbeth. 

The latest productions of Shakspeare’s genius are the 
finest. In Lear, Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth , and The 
Tempest, all his wonderful faculties and acquirements are 
13 


146 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


found combined. “ Macbeth,’ 7 in the opinion of Hallam, 
“ is the greatest effort of his genius, the most sublime and 
impressive drama the world has ever beheld.” The essence 
of his genius, according to Cardinal Wiseman, consists in 
what constitutes the very soul of the dramatic idea, the 
power to throw himself into the situations, the circum¬ 
stances, the nature, the acquired habits, the feelings true 
or fictitious of every character which he introduces, and 
the power to give outward life to the inward conception. 
“ For a time he lives in the astute villain as in the inno¬ 
cent child ; he works his entire power of thought into 
intricacies of the traitor’s brain ; he makes his heart beat 
in concord with the usurer’s sanguinary spite, and then, 
like some beautiful creature in the animal world, draws 
himself out of the hateful evil, and is himself again ; and 
able even often to hold his own noble and gentle qualities 
as a mirror, or exhibit the loftiest, the most generous, and 
amiable examples of our nature. . . . This ubiquity, if we 
may so call it, of Shakspeare’s sympathies constitutes the 
unlimited extent and might of his dramatic genius.” “All 
the images of nature,” says Dryden, “ were present to him, 
and he drew them not laboriously but luckily: when he 
describes anything, you more than see it—you feel it too. 
Those who accuse him of having wanted learning, give 
him the greater commendation—he was naturally learned; 
he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature ; he 
looked inwards and found her there.” 

The objections that lie against his writings, are that he 
is frequently ‘ flat and insipid, his comic wit degenerating 
into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast.’ He often 
employs expressions and allusions not only vulgar and low, 
but licentious, common, it is true, in his day, but not the 
less censurable on that account. “ He is also open to the 
charge,” says Schlegel, “ of too often placing before our 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


m 


eyes in all its mystery and perplexity the riddle of life, 
and leaving us like a skeptic without any hint of the 
solution.” 

Of the heavenly and the supernatural—the spiritual, in 
the highest sense—he says little. Perhaps the man felt 
more than the poet reveals. Perhaps he deemed the place 
not fit for such utterances. The religion of Shakspeare is 
not known. “That he was a Christian,” says De Yere, 
“ no one who appreciates his poetry can doubt; and it is 
as certain that his religious tone has no sympathy with the 
sect or the conventicle. It has been frequently remarked 
that in the whole series of his historical plays, in which he 
so ofte* delineates ecclesiastical persons, and treads on 
tender ground, he never is betrayed into a sneer, or drops 
a hint in sanction of that polemical tradition which grew 
lip in the courts of Elizabeth and James the First, and 
which nearly to our own time, has indirectly transmitted 
itself through English literature.” “ There is,” says Reed, 
“ an impressive contrast between the spirit with which 
Milton and Shakspeare have treated the most sacred 
subjects. A reverential temper, less looked for in the 
dramatic bard, marks every passage in which allusion is 
made to such subjects—a feeling of profound reverential 
reserve ; and as this may not have been generally observed, 
let me group some brief and characteristic passages 
together. There is a beautiful allusion to Christmas in 
Hamlet: 

1 Some say, that ever ’gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated, 

This bird of dawning singeth all night long : 

And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 

The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, 

FTo fairy tales, no witch hath power to charm, 

So hallowed and so gracious is the time ! ’ 


148 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


The mention, in Henry the Fourth, of the Holy Land : 

1 Those holy fields 
Over whose acres walked those blessed feet, 

■Which, fourteen hundred years ago, were nailed 
Tor our advantage on the bitter cross. ’ 

The allusion to the scheme of Redemption and to the 
Lord’s prayer in Portia’s plea for mercy: 

‘ Though justice be thy plea, consider this— 

That in the course of justice none of us 
Should see salvation ; we do pray for mercy ; 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy.’ ” 

Besides his dramatic works, Shakspeare wrote 154 
sonnets and two narrative poems. An edition of Shaks¬ 
peare purged of vulgarity and indecency would be a val¬ 
uable contribution to the literature of the age. 

Shakspeare died at Stratford on the anniversary of his 
birthday, April 23d, 1616; and was interred on the 
second day after his death, in the chancel of Stratford 
church, where a monument still remains to his memory. 

The Exiled Duke’s Philosophy, 

From As You Like It , Act. II., Scene I. 

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, 

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet 
Than that of painted pomp ? are not these woods 
More free from peril than the envious court ? 

Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, 

The seasons’ difference; as the icy fang, 

And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind, 

Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, 

Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say, 

This is no flattery ; these are counsellors 
That feelingly persuade me what I am. 


TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


149 


Sweet are the uses of adversity, 

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.* 

And this our life, exempt from public taunt, 

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. 

Fidelity. 

From As You Like It , Act I-I., Scene II. 
Adam. But do not so: I have five hundred crowns, 
The thrifty hire I Sav’d under your father, 

Which I did store, to be my foster-nurse, 

When service should in my old limbs lie lame, 

And- unregarded age in corners thrown. 

Take that: and He that doth the ravens feed, 

Yea, providentially caters for the sparrow, 

Be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold ; 

All this I give you : let me be your servant; 

Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; 

For in my youth I never did apply 
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood; 

Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo 
The means of weakness and debility; 

Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 

Frosty but kindly ; let me go with you: 

I’ll do the service of a younger man 
In all your business and necessities. 

Orlando. O good old man, how well in thee appears 
The constant service of the antique world, 

When service sweat for duty, not for meed ; 

Thou art not for the fashion of these times, 

Where none will sweat hut for promotion, 

And having that, do choke their service up 
Even with the having; it is not so with thee. 

But, poor old man, thou prun’st a rotten tree, 

That cannot so much as a blossom yield, 

In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry. 


13 * 


* A belief of Shakspeare’s age. 



150 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


But come thy ways, we’ll go along together ; 

And ere we have th}'- youthful wages spent, 

We’ll light upon some settled low content. 

Adam. Master, go on ; and I will follow thee, 

To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty. 

Clarence’s Dream. 

From Richard III Act 1., Scene IY. 

Brakenbury. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day ? 
Clarence. O, I have passed a miserable night, 

So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams, 

That, as I am a Christian faithful man, 

I would not spend another such a night 
Though ’twere to buy a world of happy days ; 

So full of dismal terror was the time. 

Brak. What was your dream, my lord ? I pray you tell me. 
Clar. Methought that I had broken from the Tower, 

And was embark’d to cross to Burgundy, 

And in my company my brother Glo’ster, 

Who from my cabin tempted me to walk 

Upon the hatches. Thence we look’d tow’rd England, 

And cited up a thousand heavy times, 

During the wars of York and Lancaster, 

That had befallen us. As we pac’d along 
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, 

Methought that Glo’ster stumbled ; and in falling 
Struck me, that sought to stay him, overboard 
Into the tumbling billows of the main. 

O Lord, methought what pain it was to drown ! 

What dreadful noise of waters in my ears! 

What sights of ugly death within mine eyes ! 

Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks; 

A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon ; 

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, 

Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels. 

Some lay in dead men’s skulls; and in those holes, 

Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, 

As ’twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems, 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


151 


That woo’d the slimy bottom of the deep, 

And mock’d the dead bones that lay scatter’d by. 

Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death 
To gaze upon the secrets of the deep ? 

Clar. Methought I had ; and often did I strive 
To yield the ghost; but still the envious flood 
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth 
To find the empty, vast, and wand’ring air, 

But smother’d it within my panting bulk, 

"Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. 

Brak. Awak’d you not with this sore agony? 

Clar. O, no, my dream was lengthened after life. 
O, then began the tempest to my soul. 

I pass’d, methought, the melancholy flood, 

With that grim ferryman which poets write of, 

Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. 

The first that there did greet my stranger soul 
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, 
Who cried aloud — 11 WTiat scourge for perjury 
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence? ” 

And so he vanish’d. Then came wand’ring by 
A shadow* like an angel, with bright hair 
Dabbled in blood, and he shriek’d out aloud— 

“ Clarence is come ; false, fleeting, perjur’d Clarence, 
That stabb’d me in the field by Tewkesbury ; 

Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments ! ” 
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends 
Environ’d me, and howled in mine ears 
Such hideous cries, that with the very noise 
I, trembling, waked ; and for a season after 
Could not believe but that I was in hell: 

Such terrible impression made my dream. 

Brak. No marvel, lord, that it affrighted you ; 

I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it. 

Clar. Ah ! Brakenbury, I have done those things 
That now give evidence against my soul, 

Eor Edward’s sake ; and see how he requites me ! 


* Prince Edward, the son of Henry VI. 



152 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


O God ! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee, 

But thou wilt be aveng’d on my misdeeds, 

Yet execute thy wrath on me alone : 

O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children !— 

I prithee, Brakenbury, stay by me; 

My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. 

From King John, Act IV., Scene I. 

Enter Hubert and Two Attendants. 

Hub. Heat me these irons hot; and, look thou stand 
Within the arras ; when I strike my foot 
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth ; 

And bind the boy, which you shall find with me, 

Fast to the chair : be needful: hence, and watch. 

1 Attend. I hope, your warrant will bear out the deed. 

Hub. Uncleanly scruples ! Fear not you ; look to’t.— 

[Exeunt Attendants. 

Young lad, come forth ; I have to say with you. 

Enter Arthur. 

Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. 

Hub. Good morrow, little prince. 

Arth. As little prince (having so great a title 
To be more prince,) as may be.—You are sad. 

Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. 

Arth. Mercy on me ! 

Methinks, nobody should be sad but I. . . . 

So I w r ere out of prison, and kept sheep, 

I should be as merry as the day is long : 

And.so I would be here, but that I doubt 
My uncle practices more harm to me ; 

He is afraid of me, and I of him : 

Is it my fault that I was Geffrey’s son ! 

No indeed, is’t not; and I would to heaven, 

I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. 

Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate 
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead : 

Therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch. 


[Aside.) 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


Arth. Are you sick, Hubert ? you look pale to-day : 

In sooth, I would you were a little sick : 

That I might sit all night, and watch with you. 

I warrant, I love you more than you do me. 

Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.— 

Head here, young Arthur. ( Showing a paper.) How now fool 
ish rheum! {Aside.) 

Turning dispiteous torture out of door ! 

I must be brief; lest resolution drop 

Out at my eyes, in tender womanish tears.- 

Can you not read it ? is it not fair writ? 

Arih. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect: 

Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ? 

Hub. Young boy, I must. 

Arih. .. And will you ? 

Hub. And I will. 

Arth. Have you the heart ? When your head did but ache, 

I knit my handkerchief about yovir brows, 

(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,) 

And I did never ask it you again : 

And with my hand at midnight held your head ; 

And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, 

Still and anon cheered up the heavy time ; 

Saying, What lack you ? and, Where lies your grief? 

Or what good love may I perform for you ? 

Many a poor man’s son would have lain still, 

And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you ; 

But you at your sick service had a prince. 

Nay, you may think, my love was crafty love, 

And call it, cunning ; do an if you will : 

If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill, 

Why, then you must.—Will you put out mine eyes ? 

These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, 

So much as frown on you ? 

Hub. I have sworn to do it; 

And with hot irons must I burn them out. 

Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it! 

The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, 

Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, 



154 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


And quench his fiery indignation, 

Even in the matter of mine innocence. 

Nay, after that, consume away in rust, 

But for containing fire to harm mine eye. 

Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron ? 

And if an angel should have come to me, 

And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes, 

1 would not have believed no tongue, but Hubert’s. 

Hub. Come forth. [Stamps.) 

Re-enter Attendants, with cords , irons , § c . 

Do as I bid you do. 

Arth. 0, save me, Hubert, save me ! my eyes are out, 

Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. 

Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. 

Arth. Alas, what need you be so boisterous-rough ? 

I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. 

For heaven’s sake, Hubert, let me not be bound ; 

Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away, 

And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; 

I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, 

Nor look upon the iron angerly : 

Thrust but these men away, and I’ll forgive you. 

Whatever torment you do put me to. 

Hub. Go, stand within ; let me alone with him. 

1 Attend. I am best pleased to be from such a deed. 

[Exeunt Attendants. 

Arth. Alas ! I then have chid away my friend: 

He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart: — 

Let him come back, that his compassion may 
Give life to yours. 

Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. 

Arth. Is there no remedy ? 

Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. 

Arth. O heaven ! — that there were but a mote in yours, 

A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, 

Any annoyance in that precious sense ! 

Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, 

Your vile intent must needs seem horrible, 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


155 


Hub. Is this your promise ? go to, hold your tongue. 
Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues 
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes : 

Let me not hold my tongue ; let me not, Hubert I 
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, 

So I may keep mine eyes ; O, spare mine eyes ; 

Though to no use, but still to look on you ! 

Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold, 

And would not harm me. 

Hub. I can heat it, boy. 

Arth. No, in good sooth j the fire is dead with grief, 
Being create for comfort, to be used 
In undeserved extremes : see else yourself; 

There is no malice in this burning coal; 

The breach of heaven hath blown his spirit out, 

And strewed repentant ashes on his head. 

Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, bo)'. 

Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush, 
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert: 
Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes; 

And, like a dog that is compelled to fight, 

Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. 

All things, that you should use to do me wrong, 

Deny your office : only you do lack 

That mercy, which fierce fire, and iron, extend, 

Creatures of note, for mercy-lacking uses. 

Hub. Well, see to live ; I will not touch thine eyes 
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes : 

Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy, 

With this same very iron to burn them out. 

Arth. O, now you look like Hubert 1 all this while 
You were disguised. 

Hub. Peace : no more. Adieu ; 

Your uncle must not know but you are dead : 

I’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports. 

And pretty child, sleep, doubtless, and secure, 

That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, 

Will not offend thee. 

Arth. 


O heaven !—I thank you, Hubert. 


156 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Hub. Silence ; no more: Go closely in with me ; 

Much danger do I undergo for thee. [ Exeunt . 

End of all Earthly Glories. 

From The Tempest, Act IV. 

Our revels now are ended : these our actors, 

As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
Are melted into air, into thin air ; 

And, like the basely fabric of this vision, 

The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, 

The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ; 

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 

Leave not a rack behind ! We are such stuff 
As dreams are made on, and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep. 

Mercy. 

From The Merchant of Venice , Act IV., Scene I. 

The quality of mercy is not strain’d ; 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless’d ; 

It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. 

’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown : 

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 

The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. 

But mercy is above the sceptred sway; 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings; 

It is an attribute to God himself; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God’s 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 

Though justice be thy plea, consider this— 

That, in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy ; 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


157 


Activity necessary to keep Fame Bright. 

From Troilus and Cressida , Act III., Scene II. 

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his hack, 

"Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, 

A great-sized monster of ingratitudes : 

Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devour’d 
As fast as they are made, forgot as soon 
As done. Perseverance, dear my lord, 

Keeps honor bright. To have done, is to hang 
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail 
In monumental mockery. Take the instant way ; 

For honor travels in a straight so narrow, 

Whererone but goes abreast: keep then the path ; 

For emulation has a thousand sons, 

That one by one pursue. If you give way, 

Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, 

Like to an enter’d tide, they all rush by, 

And leave you hindmost;— 

Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank, 

Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, 

O’er-run and trampled on. Then what they do in present, 
Though less than yours in past, must o’ertop yours : 

For time is like a fashionable host, 

That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand ; 

And with his arms out-stretched, as he would fly, 

Grasps in the comer : Welcome ever smiles, 

And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek 
Remuneration for the thing it was ; 

For beauty, wit, 

High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service, 

Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all 
To envious and calumniating time. 

The Commonwealth of Bees. 

From Henry V., Act I., Scene II. 

While that the armed head doth fight abroad, 

The advised head defends itself at home : 

14 


15S 


BRITISH LITERATURE 


Tor government, though high, and low, and lower, 
Put into parts, doth keep with one concert, 
Congreeing in a full and natural close, 

Like music. Therefore doth heaven divide 
The state of man in divers functions, 

Setting endeavour in continual motion ; 

To which is fixed, as an aim or butt, 

Obedience : for so work the honey-bees ; 

Creatures, that, by a rule in nature, teach 
The act of order to a peopled kingdom. 

They have a king, and officers of sorts : 

Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, 
Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad ; 
Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, 

Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds ; 

Which pillage they with merry march bring home 
To the tent-royal of their emperor, 

Who, busied in his majesty, surveys 
The singing masons building roofs of gold ; 

The civil citizens kneading up the honey ; 

The poor mechanic porters crowding in 
Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate ; 

The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum 
Delivering o’er to executioners pale 
The lazy yawning drone. 

Neglected Opportunity. 

From Julius Ccesar , Act IV., Scene III. 

There is a tide in the affairs of men, 

Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; 
Omitted, all the voyage of their life 
Is bound in shallows and in miseries. 

On such a full sea are we now afloat, 

And we must take the current when it serves, 

Or lose our ventures. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


159 


The beauty of the Firmament. 

From The Merchant of Venice , Act V., Scene I. 

.Look how the floor of Heaven 

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ! 
There’s not the smallest orb which thou beliold’st, 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 

Still quiring to the young-eyed Cherubinis I 
Such harmony is in immortal souls; 

But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. 

Innocence contrasted with quilt. 

From Henry VI., Part II., Act III., Scene II. 

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted ! 
Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just; 

And he but naked though locked up in steel, 

Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. 


Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind ; 

The thief doth fear each bush an officer. 

Fall of Cardinal Wolsey. 

From Henry VIII., Act III, Scene II. 

Cardinal Wolsey, after his fall from the favor of Henry VIII., 
thus soliloquises, and afterwards confers with his servant Crom¬ 
well : — 

Wolsey. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! 

This is the state of man ; to day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, 

And bears his blushing honors thick upon him : 

The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost; 

And,—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a ripening,—nips his root, 

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, 

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 




160 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


This many summers in a sea of glory; 

But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 
At length broke under me ; and now has left me, 

"Weary, and .old with service, to the mercy 
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. 

Yain pomp, and glory of this world, I hate ye; 

I feel my heart new-open’d: O, how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favors ! 

There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, 

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 

More pangs and fears than wars or women have; 

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 

Never to hope again.— 

Enter Cromwell cimazedly. 

Why, how now, Cromwell ? 

Crom. I have no power to speak, sir. 

Wol. What, amazed 

At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder 
A great man should decline ? Nay, and you weep, 

I am fallen indeed. 

Crom. How does your grace ? 

Wol. Why, well; 

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 

I know myself now; and I feel within me 
A peace above all earthly dignities, 

A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me, 

I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders, 

These ruin’d pillars, out of pity, taken 
A load would sink a navy, too much honor: 

O ’tis a burden, Cromwell, ’tis a burden, 

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven. 

Crom. I am glad, your grace has made that right use of it. 
Wol. I hope I have; 1 am able now, methinks, 

(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,) 

To endure more miseries, and greater far, 

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. 

What news abroad ? 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


161 


^' om * The heaviest, and the worst, 

Is your displeasure with the king. 

^ God bless him I 

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen 
Lord Chancellor in your place. 


" That's somewhat sudden : 

But he’s a learned man. May he continue 
Long in his highness’ favor, and do justice 
For truth’s sake, and his conscience; that his bones, 

M hen he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings, 
May have a tomb of orphans’ tears wept on ’em! * 
What more ? 

Crom. That Cranmer is return’d with welcome, 
Install’d lord archbishop of Canterbury. 

Wol. m That’s news indeed. 


Go, get thee from me, Cromwell ; 

I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now 
To be thy lord and master. Seek the king; 

That sun I pray may never set I I have told him 
What, and how true thou art; he will advance thee; 
Some little memory of me will stir him, 

(I know his noble nature,) not to let 
Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell, 
Neglect him not, make use now, and provide 
For thine own future safety. 

Crom. O my lord, 

Must I then leave you ? Must I needs forego 
So good, so noble, and so true a master? 

Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, 

With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. 

The king shall have my service; but my prayers 
For ever, and for ever, shall be yours. 

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me 
Out of thy honest truth to play the'woman. 

Let’s dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 


* The chancellor is the general guardian of orphans. 

14* 



162 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


And,—when I am forgotten, as I shall he, 

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 
Of me more must be heard of,—say, I taught thee; 

Say, Wolsey,—that once trod the ways of glory, 

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,— 

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 

A sure and safe one, though thy master miss’d it. 

Mark but my fall, and that that ruin’d me. 

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ; 

By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, 

The image of his Maker,, hope to win by’t? 

Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee ; 
Corruption wins not more than honesty. 

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 

, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: 

Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, 

Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell, 

Thou fall’st a blessed martyr. Serve the king ; 

And,-Pr’ythee, lead me in : 

There take an inventory of all I have, 

To the last penny ; ’tis the king’s ; my robe, 

And my integrity to heaven, is all 
I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, 

IIad I but served my God with half the zeal 
I served my king, he would not in mine age 
Have left me naked to mine enemies. 

Grom. Good sir, have patience. 

Wol. So I have. Farewell. 

The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell. 

Wolsey’s Vices and Virtues. 

From Henry VIII., Act IV., Scene II. 

Queen Katharine. So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him! 
Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him, 

And yet with charity.—He was a man 
Of an unbounded stomach *, ever ranking 


* pride. 




THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


163 


Himself with princes ; one, that by suggestion, 
Tith’d all the kingdom : simony was fair play ; 

His own opinion was his law : i’ the presence * 

He would say untruths; and be ever double, 

Both in his words and meaning. He was never, 
But where he meant to ruin, pitiful; 

His promises were, as he was then, mighty ; 

But his performance, as he is now, nothing. 

Of his own body he was ill, and gave 
The clergy ill example. 

Griffith. Noble madam, 

Men’s evil manners live in brass ; their virtues 
We write in water. May it please your highness 
To hear me speak his good now ? 

Katharine. Yes, good Griffith ; 

I were malicious else. 

Griffith. This cardinal, 

Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly 
Was fashioned to much honor from his cradle. 

He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one; 
Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading; 

Lofty and sour to them that loved him not; 

But to those men that sought him sweet as summer, 
And though he were unsatisfied in getting, 

(Which was a sin,) yet in bestowing, madam, 

He was most princely : ever witness for him 
Those twins of learning, that he raised in you, 
Ipswich and Oxford ! one of them fell with him,f 
Unwilling to outlive the good that did it; 

The other, though unfinished, yet so famous, 

So excellent in art, and still so rising, 

That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. 

His overthrow heaped happiness upon him ; 

For then and not till then he felt himself, 

And found the blessedness of being little : 

And to add greater honor to his age 

Than man could give him, he died, fearing God. 


* of the King. 


t Ipswich. 



164 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


FRANCIS BACON, 1561-1626. 

Francis Bacon, Lord Iligh Chancellor of England, 
termed by many the parent of experimental philosophy, 
was born in London in 1561. From his early boyhood 
he showed great vivacity of mind, and gave indications of 
his future eminence. When only nineteen years old, he 
wrote a work entitled Of the State of Europe, in which 
he displayed astonishing maturity of judgment. To an 
active, comprehensive, and penetrating genius, he added 
application to study and the frequentation of the learned 
men of his age. His character unfortunately is not in 
keeping with his literary merit. Having been accused by 
Parliament of venality and corruption, he fully confessed 
to the Committee of investigation the crimes laid to his 
charge, and besought them not ‘to press upon a broken 
reed.’ He was fined £40,000, imprisoned in the Tower, 
and declared incapable of holding any office or employment 
in the State. However, he was soon released by King 
James, and obtained the entire revocation of his sentence. 

The following are the most important works of this 
remarkable man: 

I. Essays, or Counsels Civil and Moral, the best known 
and most popular of his productions. The Essays are fifty- 
eight in number, besides a fragment. Burke preferred them 
to Bacon’s other writings. “ The small volume of Essays 
may be read from beginning to end in a few hours; and 
yet after the twentieth perusal, one seldom fails to remark 
in it something overlooked before.”* The style is elabo¬ 
rate, sententious, often witty, often metaphorical, and pos¬ 
sesses a degree of conciseness rarely found in the compo¬ 
sitions of the Elizabethan age. 


*Dugald Stewart. 




THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 165 

II. The treatise De Sapientia Veterum, in which he 
shows his knowledge of antiquity, and explains the ancient 
fables by ingenious allegories. 

III. Elements of the Laws of England, in two parts: 
1. k A collection of the principal rules and maxims of the 
common law with their latitude and extent. 2. The use 
of the law for the preservation of our persons, goods, and 
good names. 

IV. De Augmenlis Scientiarum. This work, in which 
his. English treatise on the Advancement of Learning is 
embodied, gives a general summary of human knowledge, 
taking special notice of gaps and imperfections in science. 

Y. Nfivum Organum, or New Instrument or Method of 
studying the sciences. This work explains the inductive 
method of reasoning, and dwells on the necessity of experi¬ 
ments in the study of natural sciences. From thence the 
appellation of Baconian method came to be used for the 
method of induction. 

The De Augmentis and the Novum Organum form the 
first two parts of a vast philosophical system, in six divi¬ 
sions, entitled Instauratio Magna ( The Great Reform of 
sciences); of the four other parts we have only some 
detached fragments. 

The most opposite appreciations have been given of 
Lord Bacon and his philosophical works. Whilst many 
writers, like Hallam, Dugald Stewart, Diderot, D’Alem¬ 
bert, and in general the impugners of the scholastic phil¬ 
osophy, have professed unbounded admiration for his 
genius; others, among whom we may quote De Maistre, 
Bohrbacher, and Cantu, have strenuously maintained that 
his works swarm with errors ; that the method of induction, 
falsely called Baconian, far from being new, was pointed 
out by Aristotle himself, and applied extensively by Roger 
Bacon, Copernicus, Galileo, and many other modern phil- 


166 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


osophers before Francis Bacon ; and finally, that his real 
merit lies only in the poetical beauties with which he has 
illustrated the driest subjects. We think that Bacon has 
been too much praised and too much blamed. He had 
the actual merit of urging the practice of the inductive 
method in physical sciences. True.it is that the method 
was well known before Bacon; but, in point of fact, it 
was too often neglected. The great fault with Bacon is to 
imply everywhere as a principle that man knows nothing 
except through experience and observation. This principle 
was afterwards followed up to its last consequences, and 
eventually led its defenders to materialism and atheism. 
As to Bacon himself, fond as he was of experiments, he 
made and multiplied them to little profit, and left no 
important contribution to any single branch of physical 
science.* 

He died in 1626 of a fever contracted while making an 
experiment. He was buried at St. Albans. A great poet 
has styled him: 

‘The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind.'—Pope. 

Of Truth. 

Essay I. 

.It will be acknowledged, even by those that practise 

it not, that clear and round dealing is the honor of man's nature, 
and that mixture of falsehood is like alloy in coin of gold and 
silver, which make the metal work the better, but it embaseth it. 
For these winding and crooked courses are the goings of the 
serpent, which goeth basely upon the belly and not upon the feet. 
There is no vice that doth so cover a man with shame, as to be 
found false and perfidious; and therefore Montaigne saith prettily, 
when he inquired the reason why the word of the lie should be 
such a disgrace, and such an odious charge: saith he, “If it be 


* Th. Arnold’s Manual of Eng. Lit., p. 175. 


i 






THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


16T 


well weighted, to say that a man lieth, is as much as to say that 
he is brave towards God and a coward towards men. For a lie 
faces God, and shrinks from man.” 

Of Adversity. 

Essay V. 

The vertue of Prosperity is Temperance, the Vertue of Adver¬ 
sity is Fortitude, which in Morals is the more Heroical veTtue, 
Prosperity is the Blessing of the Old Testament; Adversity is the 
Blessing of the New; which carrieth the greater Benediction, 
and the Clearer Revelation of God’s Favour. Yet even in the 
Old Testament, if you listen to David's harpe, you shall heare as 
many Herse-like ayres as Carols ; and the Pencil of the Holy 
Ghost bath laboured more in describing the Afflictions of Job 
than the Felicities of Solomon. Prosperity is not without many 
Feares and Distates; and Adversity is not without Comforts and 
Hopes. We see in hi eedle-workes and Imbroideries, it is more 
pleasing to have a Lively Worke upon a Sad and Solemn Ground, 
than to have a Darke and Melancholy Worke upon a Lightsome 
Ground : judge, therefore, of the Pleasure of the Heart by the 
Pleasure of the Eye, Certainly vertue is like pretious Odours, 
most fragrant when they are incensed, or crushed : For Pros¬ 
perity dost best discover Vice, but Adversity doth best discover 
Vertue. 


Of Studies. 

Essay L. 

Studies serve for Delight, for Ornament, and for Ability. 
Their Chiefe Use for Delight is in Privateness and Retiring ; for 
Ornament, is in Discourse; and for Ability, is in the Judgment 
and Disposition of Business. For Expert Men can Execute, and 
perhaps Judge of Particulars, one by one ; but the general coun¬ 
sels, and the plots and marshalling of affaires, come best from 
those that are Learned. To spend too much time in Studies is 
Sloth ; to use them too much for ornament is Affectation ; to 
make Judgment wholly by their rules is the humour of ascholler. 
They perfect nature, and are perfected by experience: for naturall 


168 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


abilities are like naturall plants that need proyning by study; 
and studies themselves doe give forth directions too much at large, 
except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men contemne 
studies; simple men admire them ; and wise men use them; for 
they teache not their owne use, but that is a wisdome without 
them and above them, won by observation. Reade not to con¬ 
tradict and confute ; nor to beleeve and take for granted ; nor to 
find talke and discourse; but to weigh and consider. Some 
bookes are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to 
be chewed and digested ; that is, some books are to be read onely 
in parts ; others to be read, but not curiously ; and some few to 
be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some bookes 
also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others ; 
but that would be onely in the lesse important arguments, and 
the meaner sort of bookes; else distilled books are like common 
distilled waters, flashing things. Reading inaketh a full man ; 
Conference a ready man ; and "Writing an exact man. And 
therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory ; 
if he conferre little, he had need have a present wit; and if he 
read little, he had need have much cunning to seeme to know 
that he doth not. Histories make men wise; •poets witty ; the 
mathematicks subtle; natural philosophy deep; moral grave; 
logick and rhetorick able to control. Abeunt studia in mores. . . . 

BEN JONSON, 1574-1637. 

Ben Jonson, the contemporary and friend of Sliakspeare, 
was born in 1574 at Westminster. After serving in 
Flanders as a common soldier, with great credit for 
bravery, we find him at the age of twenty settled as an 
actor in London. In this calling he did not succeed ; and 
in 1596 he produced his first comedy, Every Man in his 
Humor, which is still considered a standard piece. From 
this period he seems to have produced a play annually for 
several years, besides writing occasionally masques and in¬ 
terludes for the entertainment of the Court. He holds the 
second place among the dramatic authors of this period, 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


169 


although Beaumont and Fletcher as regards imagery and 
wit, and Massinger as regards grace and dignity of senti¬ 
ment, rank before him. In many of the qualities of a 
dramatist, Jonson excels; but he is often hard, ungenial, 
pedantic, wearing too frequently what Milton calls “ his 
learned sock.” His comedies and tragedies are sixteen in 
number; and his masques and other Court entertainments, 
thirty-five. Besides these, he wrote a book entitled Timber; 
or, Discoveries made upon Men and Matter. It is chiefly 
a collection of moral remarks and criticisms, unconnected, 
judicious, witty, and often severe. The English Grammar 
which is extant under his name, is but part of a work 
which he wrote on that subject. It shows an accurate 
acquaintance with the principles of our speech. It is one 
of the earliest of our grammars, as the Timber is one of 
the earliest specimens of literary criticism. 

His best dramas are his Alchymist, Epicene, and 
Volpone or the Fox, which, besides being considered 
admirable as to plot and development, exhibit traits of 
pungent humor, strong conception, and powerful discrimi¬ 
nation. 

His tragedies of Sejanus and Catiline are too learned 
and declamatory, either for the closet or the stage; and a 
great portion of his comedy is low, forced, unnatural, and 
repulsive. His characters, when compared with those of 
Shakspeare, are what sculpture is to actual life. “ His 
plays,” says Angus, “ rather tend to bring into contempt 
the religious earnestness and scriptural tastes, which then 
distinguished a large portion of the public.”* 

He died in poverty, and'was called to the ‘dread 
account’ in 1637, regretting the occasional irreverences of 
his pen, and deploring the frequent abuse of pow^er^ which 


15 


* Handbook of Lit., p. 310. 



no 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


were given for nobler ends. He was buried in West¬ 
minster Abbey, and on his tombstone were inscribed these 
words only, ‘ 0 rare Ben Jonson ! ’ 

The Character of True Valour. 

The things true valour’s exercis’d about, 

Are poverty, restraint, captivity, 

Banishment, loss of children, long disease; 

The least is death. Here valour is beheld, 

Properly seen ; about these it is present: 

Not trivial things, which but require our confidence. 

And yet to those we must object ourselves, 

Only for honesty; if any other 

Respects be mixt, we quite put out her light. 

And as all knowledge, when it is remov’d, 

Or separate from justice, is call’d craft, 

Rather than wisdom ; so a mind affecting 
Or undertaking dangers, for ambition, 

Or any self-pretext, not for the public, 

Deserves the name of daring, not of valour. 

And over-daring is as great a vice 
As over-fearing. 

But as it is not the mere punishment, 

But cause that makes a martyr, so it is not 
Fighting, or dying, but the manner of it, 

Renders a man himself. A valiant man 
Ought not to undergo, or tempt a danger, 

But worthily and by selected ways : 

He undertakes with reason, not by chance. 

His valour is the salt to his other virtues, 

They are all unseason’d without it. The waiting-maids, 

Or the concomitants of it, are his patience, 

His magnanimity, his confidence, 

His constancy, security, and-quiet; 

He can assure himself against all rumour, 

Despairs of nothing, laughs at contumelies, 

As knowing himself advanc’d in a height 
Where injury cannot reach him, nor aspersion 
Touch him with soil! 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


1U 


Advice to a Eeckless Youth. 

Learn to be wise, and practice how to thrive, 

That would I have you do : and not to spend 
T our coin on every bauble that you fancy, 

Or every foolish brain that humours you. 

I would not have you to invade each place, 

Nor thrust yourself on all societies, 

Till men’s affections, or your own desert, 

Should worthily invite you to your rank. 

He that is so respectless in his courses, 

Oft sells his reputation at cheap market. 

Nor would I you should melt away yourself 
In flashing bravery, lest, while 3 r ou affect 
To make a blaze of gentry to the world, 

A little puff of scorn extinguish if, 

And you be left like an unsavoury snuff, 

Whose property is only to offend. 

I’d ha’ you sober, and contain yourself; 

Nor that your sail be bigger than your boat; 

But moderate your expenses now (at first) 

As you may keep the same proportion still, 

Nor stand so much on your gentility, 

Which is an airy, and mere borrow’d thing, 

From dead men’s dust, and bones; and none of yours, 
Except you make, or hold it. 


TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, WlLLIAM 

Shakspeare. 

.Soul of the age, 

The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! 

My Shakspeare rise ! I will not lodge thee by 
Chaucer or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 
A little further off, to make thee room: 

Thou art a monument without a tomb, 

And art alive still, while thy book doth live, 

And we have wits to read and praise to give. 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


And though thou had small Latin and less Greek, 
From thence to honour thee I will not seek 
For names : but call forth tliund’ring Eschylus, 
Euripides, and Sophocles, to U3. 

Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show. 

To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 

He was not of an age, hut for all time 1 
And all the muses still were in their prime 
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm 
Our ears, or like a Mercviry, to charm. 

Sweet Swan of Avon, what a sight it were 
To see thee in our water yet appear, 

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, 
That did so take Eliza and our James. 


The Gooi> Life, Long Life. 

It is not growing like a tree 
In bulk doth make man better be j 
Or standing long an oak three hundred year, 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere ; 

A lily of a day 
Is fairer far in May, 

Although it fall and die that night; 

It was the plant and flower of light. 

In small proportions we just beauties see, 

And in short measures life may perfect be. 


Hymn to God the Father. 

Hear me, O God l 
A broken heart 
Is my best part: 

Use still thy rod, 

That I may prove 
Therein thy love. 





TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


H3 

If thou hadst not 
Been stern to me, 

But left me free, 

I had forgot 
Myself and thee. 

For sin’s so sweet, 

As minds ill bent 
Rarely repent, 

Until they meet 
Their punishment. 


Hymn to the Moon. 

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, 
Now the sun is laid to sleep, 

Seated in thy silver chair, 

State in wonted manner keep: 

Hesperus entreats thy light, 

Goddess, excellently bright. 

Earth, let not thy envious shade, 

Dare itself to interpose ; 

Cynthia’s shining orb was made 

Heaven to clear, when day did close : 

Bless us then with wished sight, 

Goddess, excellently bright. 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 

And thy crystal shining quiver ; 

Give unto the fiying heart 
Space to breathe, how short soever : 

Thou that mak’st a day of night, 

Goddess, excellently bright. 


15* 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


m 


Directions for Writino Well.* 

From The Timber. 

For a man to write well, there are required three necessaries:—■ 
to read the best authors; observe the best speakers ; and much 
exercise of his own style. In style, to consider what ought to be 
written, and after what manner ; he must first think, and excogi¬ 
tate his matter; then choose his words, and examine the weight 
of cither. Then take care in placing and ranking both matter 
and words, that the composition be comely ; and to do this with 
diligence and often. No matter how slow the style be at first, so 
it be labored and accurate ; seek the best, and be not glad of the 
forward conceits, or first words that offer themselves to us, but 
judge of what we invent, and order what we approve. Itepeat 
often what we have formerly written ; which, besides that it helps 
the consequence, and makes the juncture better, quickens the 
heat of imagination, that often cools in the time of sitting down, 
and gives it new strength, as if it grew lustier by the going back. 
As we see in the contention of leaping, they jump farthest that 
fetch their race largest; or, as in throwing a dart or javelin, we 
force back our arms, to make our loose the stronger. Yet, if we 
have a fair gale of wind, I forbid not the steering out of our sail, 
so the favor of the gale deceive us not. For all that we invent 
doth please us in the conception or birth; else wo would never 
set it down. But the safest is to return to our judgment, and 
handle over again those things, the easiness of which might make 
them justly suspected. So did the best writers in their begin¬ 
nings They imposed upon themselves care and industry. They 
did nothing rashly. They obtained first to write well, and then 
custom made it easy and a habit. By little and little, their mat¬ 
ter showed itself to them more plentifully; their words answered, 
their composition followed ; and all, as in a well-ordered family, 
presented itself in the place. So that the sum of all is, ready 
writing makes not good writing 5 but good writing brings on 
ready writing. 


*“Ben Jonson’s directions for writing well should be indelibly impressed 
upon the mind of every student.”— Drake's Essays. 




TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


175 


ABRAHAM COWLEY, 1618-1667. 

Abraham Cowley, a distinguished poet and one of the 
most popular and influential writers of his day, was born in 
London in 1618. lie was admitted as King’s scholar in 
Westminster School, and so early imbibed a taste for 
poetry that in his sixteenth or seventeenth year, while yet 
at school, he published a collection of verses which he enti¬ 
tled Poetical Blossoms . These and other juvenile produc¬ 
tions attracted considerable attention towards the author, 
and procured him great literary distinction. His poetical 
works are divided into four classes: the miscellaneous, the 
amatoryferses, the Pindaric Odes, and the Davideis. The 
last is an epic of considerable length on the sufferings and 
glories of David. Although incomplete and conveying no 
strong proof of epic talent, it contains some pleasing pas¬ 
sages. It is now, however, entirely neglected. 

Cowley’s multifarious learning and well-digested reflec¬ 
tions give to his writings that peculiar attraction which 
grows upon the reader, as he becomes older and more 
contemplative. He was well versed both in Greek and 
Latin literature, and his imitations, paraphrases, and trans¬ 
lations, show perfect knowledge of the originals and a great 
mastery over the resources of the English language. What 
has contributed much to diminish Cowley’s reputation, 
is that abuse of intellectual ingenuity, that passion for 
learned, far-fetched, and recondite illustrations which was 
to a certain extent the vice of his age. Pope says of 
him : 


“ Who now reads Cowley ? If he pleases yet, 
His moral pleases, not his pointed wit: 
Forgot his Epic, nay Pindaric art, 

But still I love the language of his heart.” 


176 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


As an essayist in prose, Cowley’s style has a smooth and 
placid equability, abounding with thought, without any of 
the affectation or straining which disfigures his poetry. 
His Essay on Cromwell especially, is easy and graceful 
throughout with the exception of the close. In general it 
may be said of him, that few authors afford so many new 
thoughts, and those so entirely their own. A severe cold 
and fever caught from wandering among the damp fields, 
terminated his life in 1667, in the forty-ninth year of his 
age. 

Life and Fame. 

From tlie Pindaric Odes. 

O Life ! thou Nothing’s younger brother ! 

So like, that one might take one for the other 
What’s somebody or nobody ? 

In all the cobwebs of the schoolmen’s trade 
We no such nice distinction woven see, 

As ’tis £ to be ’ or ‘ not to be.’ 

Dream of a shadow ! a reflection made 
From the false glories of the gay reflected bow 
Is a more solid thing than thou. 

Yain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise 
Up betwixt two eternities ! 

Yet canst nor wind nor wave sustain, 

But broken and overwhelmed, the endless oceans meet again. 

And with what rare invention do we strive 
Ourselves then to survive I 
Wise subtle arts and such as well befit 
That Nothing, man’s no wit— 

Some with vast costly tombs would purchase it, 

And by the proofs of death pretend to live. 

‘ Here lies the great ’—false Marble l where? 

Nothing but small and sordid dust lies there. 

Some build enormous mountain-palaces, 

The fools and architects to please; 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


m 


A lasting life in well-hewn stone they rear : 

So he, who on the Egyptian shore* 

Was slain so many hundred years before, 

Lives still (O life ! most happy and most dear ! 

O life ! that epicures envy to hear !) 

Lives in the dropping ruins of his amphitheatre. 

His father-in-law a higher place does claimf 
In the seraphic entity of Fame ; 

He, since that toy his death, 

Does fill all mouths, and breathes in all men’s breath. 
’Tis true the two immortal syllables remain ; 

But oh, ye learned men ! explain 
What essence, what existence this, 

What substance, what subsistence, what hypostasis 
In sfx poor letters is ! 

In those alone does the great Caesar live, 

’Tis all the conquered world could give. 

We poets madder yet than all, 

With a refined fantastic vanity, 

Think we not only have but give eternity. 

Fain would I see that prodigal 
Who his to-morrow would bestow 
For all old Homer’s life, e’er since he died, till now ! 

To the Grasshopper. 

Happy insect! what can be 
In happiness compared to thee ? 

Fed with nourishment divine, 

The dewy morning’s gentle wine ! 

Nature waits upon thee still, 

And thy verdant cup does fill. 

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, 

Happier than the happiest king I 
All the fields which thou dost see, 

All the plants belong to thee. 

All that summer hours produce, 

Fertile made with early juice. 


♦ Pompey the Great. 


fCcesar whose daughter was married to Pompey. 




178 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Man for thee does sow and plough; 

Farmer he, and landlord thou ! 

Thou dost innocently enjoy, 

Nor does thy luxury destroy. 

Thee country hinds with gladness hear, 

Prophet of the ripened year ! 

To thee, of all things upon earth, 

Life’s no longer than thy mirth. 

Happy insect! happy thou, 

Dost neither age nor winter know. 

But when thou’st drunk, and danced, and sung 
Thy fill, the flow’ry leaves among, 

Sated with thy summer feast, 

Thou retir'st to endless rest. 

The Shortness of Life and Uncertainty of Riches. 

Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit, 
Or, what is worse, be left by it ? 

Why dost thou load thyself when thou’rt to fly, 

O man ! ordain’d to die ? 

Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high, 

Thou who art under ground to lie ? 

Thou sow’st, and plant’st, but no fruit must see, 

For death, alas ! is reaping thee. 

Suppose thou fortune couldst to tameness bring, 

And clip or pinion her wing ; 

Suppose thou couldst on fate so far prevail, 

, As not to cut off thy entail; 

Yet death at all that subtlety will laugh ; 

Death will that foolish gard’ner mock, 

Who does a slight and annual plant ingraff 
Upon a lasting stock. 

Thou dost thyself wise and industrious deem; 

A mighty husband thou wouldst seem ; 

Fond man ! like a bought slave, thou all the while 
Dost but for others sweat and toil. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


no 

Officious fool! that needs must meddling be 
In business that concerns not thee; 

For when to future years thou extend’st thy cares, 

Thou deal’st in other men's afiairs. 

Ev’n aged men, as if they truly were 
Children again, for age prepare ; 

Provisions for long travel they design, 

In the last point of their short line. 

Wisely the ant against poor winter hoards 
The stock which summer’s wealth affords ; 

In grasshoppers, which must at autumn die, 

How vain were such an industry 1 

The wise example of the heav’nly lark, 

Thy fellow-poet, Cowley ! mark ; 

Above the clouds let thy proud music sound ; 

Thy humble nest build on the ground. 


JOHN MILTON, 1608-1674. 

John Milton, England’s greatest epic poet, may be 
regarded as being in many respects the standard of digni¬ 
fied poetic expression; although Shakspeare alone exhibits 
the varied elements of copiousness, power, and brilliancy 
inherent in our language. “It is easy,” says Pope, “to 
mark out the general course of our poetryChaucer, 
Spenser, Milton, and Dryden, are the landmarks for it.” 
Milton was born in London in 1608. His first preceptor 
was a Puritan minister named Young. At the age of 
seventeen he was sent to Christ’s College, Cambridge, 
where he continued for seven years. Whilst still a member 
of the University, he wrote his Ode on the Nativity , almost 
any verse of which is sufficient to indicate a new era in 
poetry. During the few years immediately succeeding his 


180 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


University career, be wrote Lycidas, a monody on the 
death of a friend, which Jonson treats with contemptuous 
depreciation, but which is regarded by Warton and Hallam 
as a good test of real poetic feeling. Comus, a masque, 
the most graceful and fanciful of his poems, was written 
about the same time. In melody of versification, sweet¬ 
ness of imagery, and the ‘ Doric delicacy of its songs and 
odes,’ as Sir II. Wotton expresses it, it has never been 
surpassed. His L'Allegro, an ode to mirth ; and II Pen- 
seroso , an ode to melancholy, are two exquisite poems, in 
which the thought and mode of treatment are no less 
Italian than their titles. In 1638, he went abroad, and 
spent fifteen months travelling in Italy and France. In 
1644, appeared his Tractate on Education, in which he 
rejects the modern method of the school and university, 
and proposes in its place a system chiefly imitated from the 
gymnasia of Sparta and Athens, but totally impracticable 
and utopian. About the same time was published his 
Areopagitica, or Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed 
Printing, the most eloquent prose composition of his pen. 
In the triumph of the Republicans, he was appointed 
Latin Secretary of Cromwell. In 1651 was published his 
Defensio pro Populo Anglicano, a reply to Salmasius, 
the most learned man in Europe, after Grotius, who had 
defended the claims and conduct of King Charles I. For 
nearly ten years the eyesight of the poet had been failing, 
and in 1652 he became hopelessly blind. 

Dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, 

Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse 

Without all hope of day ! 

Samson Agonistes. 

“ Milton’s political and religious sentiments,” says Shaw, 
“ were of the extremest and even most violent character. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


181 


There appears continually in his works, we will not say a 
contest, but a contrast, between his conviction and his 
sympathies—between his logic and his fancy. Thus while 
Milton the polemic was advocating the overthrow of the 
monarchic institutions of England, and the destruction of 
the hierarchic edifice of its church, Milton the poet had 
his soul deeply penetrated with the enthusiasm inspired by 
his country’s history, and his ear ever thrilling to the 
majestic services of its half-Roman worship. The man 
who desired the abolition of all external dignities on earth, 
has given us the grandest picture of such a graduated 
hierarchy of orders in heaven— 

* Thrones, Princedoms, Virtues, Dominations, Powers.’ 

He who would have reduced the externals of Christianity 
to a simplicity and meanness compared with which the 
subterranean worship of the persecuted Christians of the 
primitive ages was splendor, has exhibited a deeper and 
more prevailing admiration than any other poet ever showed 
for the grandeur of Gothic architecture, and the charms 
of the solemn masses of the ancient cathedrals :— 

‘ But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloisters’ pale 
And love the high-embowered roof, 

"With antique pillars massy proof, 

And storied windows richly dight, 

Casting a dim religious light: 

There let the pealing organs blow 
To the full-voiced choir below, 

In service high and anthems clear, 

As may with sweetness through mine ear, 

Dissolve me into ecstacies, 

And bring all heaven before mine eyes.’ ” 

II Fenseroso. 


16 


182 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


His immortal Paradise Lost was finished in 1665, and 
first printed in 1667. It long struggled with bad taste 
and political prejudices, before it took a secure place among 
the few productions of the human mind that continually 
rise in estimation, and are unlimited by time or place. It 
is divided into twelve books or cantos ; it begins with the 
council of Satan and the fallen angels, the description of 
the erection of Pandemonium, and ends with the expulsion 
of our first parents from Paradise. “ Like other great 
works,” says Spalding, “ and in a higher degree than most, 
the poem is oftenest studied and estimated by peacemeal 
only. Though it be so taken, and though its unbroken 
and weighty solemnity should at length have caused weari¬ 
ness, it cannot but have left a vivid impression on all 
minds not quite unsusceptible of fine influences. The 
stately march of its diction ; the organ-peal with which its 
versification rolls on; the continual overflowing, especially 
in the earlier books, of beautiful illustrations from nature 
and art; the clearly and brightly-colored pictures of human 
happiness and innocence—these are features, some or all 
of which must be delightful to most of us, and give to the 
mind images and feelings not easily or soon effaced.” The 
First Book of Paradise Lost is as unsurpassed for mag¬ 
nificence of imagination, as the Fourth is for grace and 
luxuriance. A tide of gorgeous eloquence rolls on from 
beginning to end, like a river of molten gold, outblazing, 
we may surely say, every thing of its kind in any other 
poetry. 

“It is strange,” says Schlegel, “that Milton failed to 
discover the incompleteness of Paradise Lost as a unique 
whole, of which the Creation, the Fall, and Redemption, 
are so many successive acts closely linked together. He 
eventually perceived the defect, it is true, and appended 
Paradise Regained; but the proportions of this latter 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


183 


to the first performance were not in keeping, and much 
too slight to admit of its constituting an efficient key¬ 
stone. ” 

In studying Milton’s epic as a sacred poem, we are 
impressed by a want of awe and reserve in the handling of 
religious mysteries, when, for instance, he represents the 
Supreme Being ‘as a school divine’; and we loathe the 
grim puritanical pleasantry which he puts in the mouth of 
the rebel angels, while making the first experiment of their 
new-discovered artillery. The Miltonic Satan is undoubt¬ 
edly one of the most stupendous creations of poetry; but 
there is a heroic grandeur in it which wins, do what you 
will, a hetman sympathy. This is wrong: the representation 
of the devil should be purely and entirely evil, without a 
tinge of good, as that of God should be purely and entirely 
good, without a tinge of evil. Chateaubriand, who in his 
translation of Paradise Lost was led to study well every 
difficult expression and every shade of meaning, treating 
of its religious aspects, says in his Essai sur la Literature 
Anglaise: “ From the very opening of the poem, Milton 
declares himself a Sociniau by the famous expression 1 till 
one greater man restore us.’ He never speaks of the 
Trinity. The Son, according to him, is not begotten from 
all eternity. The poet even places his creation after that 
of the angels. Milton is Arian, if he is anything. He 
does not admit the creation in its proper sense ; he sup¬ 
poses a preexisting matter, coeternal with the spirit. The 
particular creation of the universe is, in his eyes, nothing 
else than a little corner of arranged chaos, ever ready to fall 
back into disorder. All the philosophical theories known 
by the poet have more or less a place in his belief. At 
one time it is Plato with his prototype ideas, or Pytha¬ 
goras with the harmony of the spheres; at another, it is 
Epicurus or Lucretius, with his materialism, as when he 


184 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


represents the animals as coming half-formed out of the 
earth : ” 

• Now half appeared 
The tawny lion, pawing to get free 

-, then springs as broke from bonds, 

And rampant shakes his brinded mane. 

B. VII., v. 463. 

However in the midst of this confusion of principles the 
theologian is lost in the poet, and his heterodox opinions 
will probably exercise little influence on the reader. We 
would be inclined to apply to Paradise Lost, in its 
religious aspect, what Macaulay says of his Essay on the 
Doctrines of Christianity: “ The book, were it far more 
orthodox or far more heretical than it is, would not much 
edify or corrupt the present generation.” 

In Paradise Lost we rarely meet with feeble lines. 
There are few in which the tone is not in some way distin¬ 
guished from prose. The very artificial style of Milton, 
sparing in English idiom, and his study of a rhythm not 
always the most grateful to our ears, but preserving his 
blank verse from a trivial flow, are the causes of this 
elevation. 

In 1610 appeared Paradise Regained. If inferior to 
Paradise Lost in effectiveness, as most admit, it is still 
superior to any epic that has since made its appearance. 
It differs from Paradise Lost in the greater richness of its 
moral sentiment, and in appealing rather to the contem¬ 
plative faculty than to the imaginative. His tragedy of 
Samson Agonistes appeared about the same time. It 
abounds in moral and descriptive beauties, but exhibits 
little purely dramatic talent, either in the development of 
the plot or in the delineation of character. As the Coinus 
was a beautiful reflection of happy youth, the Samson 
Agonistes shadows forth the gloomy grandeur of the poet’s 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


185 


old age. We seem to hear the voice of Milton’s own spirit 
in the words of his hero : 

I feel my genial spirit droop, 

My race of glory run, and race of shame ; 

And I shall shortly be with them that rest. 

The defects of Milton’s prose writings may, in general, 
be given as follows : An unpleasing intermixture of familiar 
with learned phraseology ; an affected elaborate structure 
seldom reaching any harmony; an absence of idiomatic 
grace, and a use of harsh inversions which violate the rules 
of language, and require, in order to compensate them, 
such high beauties as will sometimes occur. 

In 1672, he composed a system of logic after the manner 
of Ramus. 

A publication of his familiar Epistles in Latin occupied 
the last years of his life, which repeated attacks of gout 
were now rapidly bringing to a close. In 1674, he sank 
tranquilly under an exhaustion of the vital powers, when 
he had nearly completed his sixty-sixth year. 

Debate in Pandemonium. 

High on a throne of royal state, which far 
Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, 

Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand 
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold, 

Satan exalted sat, by merit raised 

To that bad eminence : and from despair 

Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires 

Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue 

Yain war with heaven ; and, by success untaught, 

His proud imaginations thus displayed: 

“ Powers and dominions, deities of heaven ; 

For since no deep within her gulf can hold 
Immortal vigour, though oppressed and fallen, 

16* 


186 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


I give not heaven for lost. From this descent 
Celestial virtues rising, will appear 
More glorious and more dread than from no fall, 
And trust themselves to fear no second fate. 

Me though just right, and the fixed laws of heaven, 
Did first create your leader : next, free choice, 

With what besides, in council or in fight, 

Hath been achieved of merit; yet this loss, 

Thus far at least recovered, hath much more 
Established in a safe unenvied throne, 

Yielded with full consent. The happier state 
In heaven, which follows dignity, might draw 
Envy from each inferior ; hut who here 
Will envy whom the highest place exposes 
Foremost to stand against the Thunderer’s aim, 
Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share 
Of endless pain ? Where there is then no good 
For which to strive, no strife can grow up there 
From faction ; for none sure will claim in hell 
Precedence, none whose portion is so small 
Of present pain, that with ambitious mind 
Will covet more. With this advantage then 
To union, and firm faith, and firm accord, 

More than can be in heaven, we now return 
To claim our just inheritance of old, 

Surer to prosper than prosperity 

Could have assured us; and by what best way, 

Whether of open war, or covert guile, 

We now debate ; who can advise, may speak.” 

.Up rose 

Belial, in act more graceful and humane: 

A fairer person lost not heaven ; he seemed 
For dignity composed, and high exploit: 

But all was false and hollow ; though his tongue 
Dropped manna, and could make the worse appear 
The better reason, to perplex and dash 
Maturest counsels : for his thoughts were low : 

To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds 
Timorous and slothful; yet he pleased the ear, 

And with persuasive accent thus began : 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


m 


“ I should he much for open war, O peers, 

As not behind in hate ; if what was urged 
Main reason to persuade immediate war, 

Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast 
Ominous conjecture on the whole success ; 

When he, who most excels in fact of arms, 

In what he counsels, and in what excels, 

Mistrustful grounds his courage on despair 
And utter dissolution, as the scope 
Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. 

First, what revenge ? The towers of heaven are filled 
With armed watch, that render all access 
Impregnable; oft on the bordering deep 
Encamp their legions ; or, with obscure wing, 
Scoutffar and wide into the realm of night, 

Scorning surprise. Or could we break our way 
By force, and at our heels all hell should rise' 

With blackest insurrection, to confound 
Heaven’s purest light; yet our great enemy, 

All incorruptible, would on his throne 
Sit unpolluted ; and the ethereal mould, 

Incapable of stain, would soon expel 
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, 

Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope 
Is flat despair : we must exasperate 
The almighty Victor to spend all his rage, 

And that must end us ; that must be our cure, 

To be no more. Sad cure ! for who would lose, 
Though full of pain, this intellectual being, 

Those thoughts that wander through eternity, 

To perish rather, swallowed up and lost 
In the wide womb of uncreated night, 

Devoid of sense and motion? And who knows, 

Let this be good, whether our angry foe 
Can give it, or will ever ? how he can, 

Is doubtful; that he never will, is sure. 

Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire, 

Belike through impotence, or unaware, 

To give his enemies their wish, and end 
Them in his anger, whom his anger saves 


183 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


To punish endless ? Wherefore cease we then ? 

Say they who counsel war, We are decreed, 

Reserved, and destined, to eternal woe ; 

Whatever doing, what can wc suffer more, 

What can we suffer worse ? Is this then worst, 

Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms ? 

What, when we fled amain, pursued, and struck 
With heaven’s afflicting thunder, and besought 
The deep to shelter us ? this hell then seemed 
A refuge from those wounds : or when lay 
Chained on the burning lake? that sure was worse. 

What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, 

Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage, 

And plunge us in the flames ? or, from above, 

Should intermitted vengeance arm again 
His red right hand to plague us ? What if all 
Her stores were opened, and this firmament 
Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire, 

Independent horrors, threatening hideous fall 
One day upon our heads ; while we perhaps, 

Designing or exhorting glorious war, 

Caught in a fiery tempest shall be hurled 
Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey 
Of wracking whirlwinds ; or for ever sunk 
Under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains; 

There to converse with everlasting groans, 

Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved, 

Ages of hopeless end ? This would be worse. 

War, therefore, open or concealed, alike 
My voice dissuades.” 

Satan passes on his journey to hell-gates: finds them 
shut, and guarded by two monsters, called Sin and Death. 

Description of Death, and Satan’s Exit from 
Pandemonium. 

The other shape, 

If shape it might be called that shape had non8 

Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb ; 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


189 


Or substance might be called that shadow seemed, 
For each seemed either; black it stood as night, 
Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as hell, 

And shook a dreadful dart; what seemed his head, 
The likeness of a kingly crown had on. 

Satan was now at hand, and from his seat 
The monster moving onward came as fast 
With horrid strides ; hell trembled as he strode. 

The undaunted fiend what this might be admired, 
Admired, not feared; God and his Son except, 
Created thing nought valued he, nor shunned ; 

And with disdainful look thus first began : 

“Whence and what art thou, execrable shape, 
That darest, though grim and terrible, advance 
Thy miscreated front athwart my way 
To yonder gates ? through them I mean to pass, 
That be assured, without leave asked of thee: 

Retire, or taste thy folly, and learn by proof, 
Hell-born, not to contend with spirits of heaven.” 

To whom the goblin full of wrath replied : 

“ Art thou that traitor-angel, art thou he, 

Who first broke peace in heaven, and faith, till then 
Unbroken ; and in proud, rebellious arms, 

Drew after him the third part of heaven’s sons 
Conjured against the Highest; for which both thou 
And they, outcast from God, are here condemned 
To waste eternal days in woe and pain ? 

And reckonest thou thyself with spirits of heaven, 
Hell-doomed, and breathest defiance here and scorn, 
Where I reign king, and, to enrage thee more, 

Thy king and lord ? Back to thy punishment, 

False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings, 

Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue 

Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart 

Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before.” 

So spake the grisly terror, and in shape, 

So speaking and so threatening, grew tenfold 
More dreadful and deform. On the other side, 
Incensed with indignation, Satan stood 
Unterrified, and like a comet burned, 


190 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge 
In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair 
Shakes pestilence and war. Each at the head 
Levelled his deadly aim ; their fatal hands 
No second stroke intend ; and such a frown 
Each cast at the other, as when two black clouds, 
With heaven’s artillery fraught, come rattling on 
Over the Caspian, then stand front to front, 
Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow 
To join their dark encounter in mid air : 

So frowned the mighty combatants, that hell 
Grew darker at their frown ; so matched they stood ; 
For never but once more was either like 
To meet so great a foe : and now great deeds 
Had been achieved, whereof all hell had rung, 

Had not the snaky sorceress, that sat 
Fast by hell-gate, and kept the fatal key, 

Risen, and with hideous outcry rushed between. 


The Third Book opens by an easy transition, with an 
address to Light. The whole passage has been greatly 
admired : 

Address to Light. 

Hail, holy light! offspring of heaven first born, 

Or of the Eternal coeternal beam 

May I express thee unblamed ! since God is light, 

And never but in unapproached light 
Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee, 

Bright effluence of bright essence increate. 

Or hearest thou rather, pure ethereal stream, 

Whose fountain who shall tell ? Before the sun, 

Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice 
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 
The rising world of waters dark and deep, 

Won from the void and formless infinite. 

Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, 

Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detained 




THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


101 


In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight 
Through utter and through middle darkness borne, 
With other notes than to the Orphean lyre, 

I sung of Chaos and eternal N ight; 

Taught by the heavenly muse to venture down 
The dark descent, and up to re-ascend, 

Though hard and rare : thee I revisit safe, 

And feel thy sovran vital lamp ; but thou 
Revisitest not these eyes, that roll in vain 
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; 

So thick a drop serene hath quenched their orbs, 

Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more 
Cease I to winder where the muses haunt 
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, 

Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief 
Thfee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath, 

That wash thy hallowed feet and warbling flow, 
Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget 
Those other two equalled with them in renown, 
Blind Thamyris, and blind Mseonides, 

And Tiresias, and Phineas, prophets old : 

Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move 
Harmonious numbers ; as the wakeful bird 
Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid 
Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year 
Seasons return ; but not to me returns 
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 

Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose, 

Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; 

But cloud instead, and everduring dark 
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men 
Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair, 
Presented with a universal blank 
Of nature’s works to me expunged and rased, 

And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. 

So much'the rather thou, celestial light, 

Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 
Irradiate ; there plant eyes, all mist from thence 
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
Of things invisible to mortal sight. 


192 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Satan’s Soliloquy on yiewing Paradise at a distance. 

Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his view 
Lay pleasant, his grieved look he fixed sad ; 

Sometimes towards heaven, and the full blazing sun, 
Which now sat high in his meridian tower: 

Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began: 

“ 0 thou, that, with surpassing glory crowned, 
Lookest from thy sole dominion like the god 
Of this new world: at whose sight all the stars 
Hide their diminished heads ; to thee I call, 

But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, 

0 sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams, 

That bring to my remembrance from what state 
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere ; 

Till pride and worse ambition threw me down 
Warring in heaven against heaven’s matchless King 
Ah, wherefore? he deserved no such return 
From me whom he created what I was 
In that bright eminence, and with his good 
Upraided none; nor was his service hard. • 

What could be less than to afford him praise, 

The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks, 

How due 1 yet all his good proved ill in me, 

And wrought but malice; lifted up so high 
I ’sdained subjection, and thought one step higher 
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit 
The debt immense of endless gratitude, 

So burdensome still paying, still to owe; 

Forgetful what from him I still received, 

And understood not that a grateful mind 
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once 
Indebted and discharged ; what burden then ? 

O had his powerful destiny ordained 

Me some inferior angel, I had stood 

Then happy ; no unbounded hope had raised 

Ambition. Yet why not ? some other power 

As great might have aspired, and me, though mean, 

Drawn to his part; but other powers as great 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


1<J3 

Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within 
Or from without, to all temptations armed. 

Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand ? 

Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or w r hat to accuse, 

But heaven’s free love dealt equally to all ? 

Be then his love accursed, since love or hate, 

To me alike, it deals eternal woe. 

Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will 
Chose freely what it now so justly rues. 

Me miserable ! which way shall I fly 
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair ? 

Which way I fly is hell; n^yself am hell; 

And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep 
Still threatening to devour me opens wide, 

Tg. which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. 

O, then, at last relent: is there no place 
Left for repentance, none for pardon left? 

None left but by submission ; and that word 
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame 
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced 
With other promises and other vaunts 
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue 
The Omnipotent. Ay me f they little know 
IIow dearly I abide that boast so vain, 

Under what torments inwardly I groan, 

While they adore me on the throne of hell, 

With diadem and sceptre high advanced, 

The lower still I fall, only supreme 
In misery : such joy ambition finds. 

But say I could repent, and could obtain, 

By act of grace, my former state; how soon 
Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay 
What feigned submission swore ! Ease would recant 
Vows made in pain, as violent and void. 

For never can true reconcilement grow, 

Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep; 
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse 
And heavier fall: so should I purchase dear 
Short intermission bought with double smart. 


17 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


This knows my Punisher ; therefore as far 
Prom granting he, as I from begging, peace: 

All hope excluded thus, behold, instead 
Of us out-cast, exiled, his new delight 
Mankind created, and for him this world. 

So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear, 
Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost; 

Evil, be thou my good : by thee at least 
Divided empire with heaven’s King I hold, 

By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign ; 

As man, ere long, and this new world shall know.” 

Samson bewailing his Blindness and Captivity. 

From Samson Agonistea. 

Attendant leading him. 

A little onward lend thy guiding hand 
To these dark steps, a little farther on ; 

For yonder bank hath choice of sun or shade : 

There I am wont to sit, when any chance 
Believes me from my task of servile toil, 

Daily in the common, prison else enjoin’d me ; 

Where I, a prisoner chain’d, scarce freely draw 
The air imprison’d also, close, and damp, 
Unwholesome draught: but here I feel amends, 

The breath of Heaven fresh blowing, pure, and sweet, 
With day-spring born : here leave me to respire.— 
This day a solemn feast the people hold 
To Dagon their sea-idol, and forbid 
Laborious works ; unwillingly this rest 
Their superstition yields me ; hence with leave 
Betiring from the popular noise, I seek 
This unfrequented place to find some ease,— 

Ease to the body some, none to the mind, 

From restless thoughts, that like a deadly swarm 
Of hornets arm’d, no sooner found alone, 

But rush upon me thronging, and present 
Times past, what once I was, and what am now. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


195 


O, wherefore was my birth from Heaven foretold 
Twice by an angel, who at last in sight 
Of my parents all in flames ascended 
From otf the altar, where an offering burn’d, 

As in a fiery column, charioting 

His godlike presence, and from some great act 

Or benefit reveal’d to Abraham’s race ? 

Why was my breeding order’d and prescribed 
As of a person separate to God, 

Design’d for great exploits ; if I must die 
Betray’d, captived, and-both my eyes put out, 

Made of my enemies the scorn and gaze; 

To grind in brazen fetters under task 

With this heaven-gifted strength ? O glorious strength, 

Put to the labour of a beast, debased 

Lower than bond-slave ! Promise was that I 

Should Israel from Philistian yoke deliver; 

Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him 
Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves, 

Himself in bonds, under Philistian yoke. 


O loss of sight, of thee I most complain ! 

Blind among enemies, O worse than chains, 
Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age ! 

Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct, 

And all her various objects of delight 

Annull’d, which might in part my grief have eased, 

Inferior to the vilest now become 

Of man or worm : the vilest here excel me; 

They creep, yet see; I, dark in light, exposed 
To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong, 

Within doors or without, still as a fool, 

In power of others, never in my own ; 

Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. 

O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, 
Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse 
Without all hope of day ! 

O first-created Beam, and thou great Word, 

«Let there be light, and light was over all; ’ 



196 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree ? 

The sun to me is dark 
And silent as the moon, 

When she deserts the night, 

Hid in her vacant interlunar cave. 

Since light so necessary is to life, 

And almost life itself, if it be true 
That light is in the soul, 

She all in every part; why was the sight 
To such a tender ball as the eye confined, 

So obvious and so easy to be quench’d ? 

And not as feeling through all parts diffused, 

That she might look at will through every pore ? 

Then had I not been thus exiled from light, 

As in tho land of darkness yet in light, 

To live a life half-dead, a living death, 

And buried: but, O yet more miserable ! 

Myself my sepulchre, amoving grave, 

Buried, yet not exempt 
By privilege of death and burial, 

Prom worst of other evils, pains, and wrongs ; 

But mado hereby, obnoxious more 
To all the miseries of life, 

Life in captivity 
Among inhuman foes. 

SAMUEL BUTLER, 1G12-16S0. 

Samuel Butler, the author of the famous Hudibras, was 
born in Worcestershire in 1G12. It is generally thought 
that he was educated at Cambridge, although some have 
denied that he enjoyed the advantages of a university 
education. He resided for some time with Sir Samuel 
Luke, a commander under Cromwell. In this situation, he 
acquired the materials for his Hudibras, by a study of 
those around him, and particularly of Sir Samuel himself, 
a caricature of whom is exhibited in the celebrated Knight 
Hudibras, the hero of the poem. 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


197 


The name of Hudibras is taken from the old romances 
of chivalry, Sir Hugh de Bras being one of the Knights 
of King Arthur’s Round Table.* The poem itself is a 
burlesque on the extravagant ideas and rigid manners of 
the English Puritans of the Civil War and Commonwealth. 
The versification is the rhymed octo-syllabic, a measure 
well adapted for continuous and easy narrative, and pecu¬ 
liarly fitted for the burlesque. The learning, the inex¬ 
haustible wit, the ingenious and felicitous illustrations, 
the ever-surprising novelty of the dialogue, do not how¬ 
ever prevent us from perceiving that the intrigue is so 
limited and defective as scarcely to deserve the name of 
plot; and that the action is inconsistent and left unfinished 
at the conclusion, if indeed the abrupt termination of a 
poem in which nothing is concluded can be called a con¬ 
clusion. 

Incomplete as it is, more of it could hardly have been 
read, even in the days of Charles, Yet the plethora of 
wit and the condensation of thought and style, which so 
highly characterize this production, soon become tiresome 
and oppressive; and, after perusing some thirty or forty 
pages, the reader would fain relinquish the task and pass 
to something less sparkling or whimsical. As a work 
intended to ridicule the Puritans, the attraction of Iludi- 
bras was great, but temporary. As applicable to classes 
of characters which exist forever, the pungency will always 
be relished. Fanaticism, hypocrisy, and time serving ve¬ 
nality, are of all ages. The idiomatic spirit of this cele¬ 
brated satirist, his proverb-like oddity and humor of 

♦The Knights of the Round Table, a military order supposed to have 
been instituted by Arthur, a renowned British chieftain in the year 516. 
They are said to have been twenty-four in number, all selected from among 
the bravest of the nation. The Round Table, which gave them their title, 
was an invention of that prince to avoid disputes about the upper and lower 
end, and to take away all emulation as to places. 

17* 



198 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


expression, have caused many of his lines and similes to 
be completely identified with the language. 

Celebrated as Iludibras rendered its author, it did 
nothing towards extricating him from indigence. The 
unfortunate and ill-requited laureate of the Royalists, died 
in 1680 , not possessing sufficient property to pay his 
funeral expenses. A monument was indeed erected to his 
memory in Westminster Abbey forty years after his death ; 
and this tardy recognition of his merit gave occasion to 
one of the keenest epigrams in the English language: 

“ Whilst Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive, 

No generous patron would a dinner give: 

See him, when starved to death and turned to dust, 
Presented with a monumental bust. 

The poet’s fate is here in emblem shown ; 
lie asked for bread, and he received a stone.” 


Sir Hudidras and his Accomplishments. 

When civil dudgeon first grew high, 

And men fell out, they knew not why, 

W 7 hen hard words, jealousies, and fears, 

Set folks together by the ears ; . . . 

When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded 
By long-eared rout, to battle sounded, 

And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, 

"Was beat with fist instead of a stick ; 

Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling, 

And out he rode a-colonelling. 

A wight he was, whose very sight would 
Entitle him mirror of knighthood, 

That never bowed his stubborn knee 
To anything but chivalry, 

Nor put up blow but that which laid 
Bight worshipful on shoulder blade. . . . 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


199 


We grant, altho’ he had much wit, 

He was very shy of using it; 

As being loth to wear it out, • 

And therefore bore it not about, 

Unless on holidays or so, 

As men their best apparel do. 

Besides, ’tis known he could speak Greek, 
As naturally as pigs squeak. 

That Latin was no more difficile 
Than to a blackbird Tis to whistle: 

Being rich in both, he never scanted 
His bounty unto such as wanted ; 

But much of either would afford 
To many that had not one word. . . . 

He was in logic a great critic, 
Profoundly skilled in analytic. 

He could distinguish and divide 
A hair ’twixt south and south-west side : 
On either which he would dispute, 
Confute, change hands, and still confute. 
He’d undertake to prove, by force 
Of argument,—a man’s no horse ; 

He’d prove a buzzard—is no fowl, 

And that a lord may be—an owl ; 

A calf—an alderman ; a goose—a justice ; 
And rooks—committee-men and trustees. 
He’d run in debt by disputation, 

And pay with ratiocination. 

All this by syllogism, true 
In mood and figure, he would do. 

For rhetoric—he could not ope 
His mouth but out there flew a trope; 

And when he happen’d to break off 
I’ the middle of his speech or cough, 

He had hard words ready to show why, 
And tell what rule he did it by ; 

Else, when with greatest art he spoke, 
You’d think he talked like other folk ; 

For all a rhetorician’s rules 
Teach nothing but to name his tools. 


200 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


But, when he pleased to show’t, his speech 
In loftiness of sound was rich ; 

A Babylonish dialect, 

Which learned pedants much affect. 

It was a parti-colour’d dress 
Of patched and piebald languages : 

’Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, 

As fustian heretofore on satin : 

It had an odd promiscuous tone, 

As if he had talked three parts in one: 

Which made some think, when he did gabble, 
They had heard three labourers of Babel, 

Or Cerberus himself pronounce 
A leash of languages at once. 

His Religion. 

For his religion, it was fit 
To match his learning and his wit: 

7 Twas Presbyterian true blue. 

For he was of.that stubborn crew 
Of errant saints, whom all men grant 
To be the true church militant; 

Such as do build their faith upon 
The holy text of pike and gun ; 

Decide all controversies by 
Infallible artillery; 

And prove their doctrine orthodox 
By apostolic blows and knocks ; 

Call fire, and sword, and desolation 
A godly thorough reformation, 

Which always must be carried on, 

And still be doing, never done; 

As if religion were intended 
For nothing else but to be mended ; 

A sect whose chief devotion lies 
In odd perverse antipathies; 

In falling out with that or this, 

And finding somewhat still amiss ; 

More peevish, cross, and splenetic, 

Than dog distraught or monkey sick ; 


TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


201 


That with more care keep holiday 
The wrong, than others the right way ; 
Compound for sins they are inclined to, 
By damning those they have no mind to. 
Still so perverse and opposite. 

As if they worshipped God for spite. 


JOHN DRYDEN, 1G31-1700. 

John Dryden, one of the greatest masters of English 
verse, styled by Dr. Johnson father of English critics, and 
whose masculine satire has never been excelled, was born 
in Northamptonshire in 1631. He was educated partly 
at Westminster; and partly at Trinity College, Cambridge. 
His first acknowledged publication was a poem on the 
death of Lord Hastings; but his most important and 
promising early production was a set of heroic stanzas on 
the death of Cromwell. 

In 1662, he became a candidate for theatrical laurels, 
and within the space of thirty years produced twenty-seven 
plays, the most popular of which are The Indian Emperor 
and The Conquest of Granada. His dramatic efforts 
however were for the most part failures; and he had but 
too much cause for the repentance which he expresses with 
reference to the licentiousness with which they are defiled. 
Deeply is it to be regretted that his great talents were so 
instrumental in extending and prolonging the depravation 
of national taste. His comedy is, with scarcely an excep¬ 
tion, false to nature, ill-arranged, and offensive equally to 
taste and morality. 

In 1667, appeared Annus Mirahilis a poem on the 
memorable events of 1666, which may be esteemed his 
most elaborate work. In 1681, Dryden published the 
political satire of Absalom and Achitophel, written in the 
style of a scriptural narrative, in which the incidents of 


202 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


the rebellion of Absalom against David are admirably 
applied to Charles II., the Duke of Monmouth, and the 
intriguing Earl of Shaftesbury. It is considered the most 
vigorous, elastic, and finely versified satire in the English 
language. The attacks of a rival poet, Shadwell, drew 
from his pen, in 1682, another vigorous satire entitled 
Mac-FlecJcnoe. 

In the same year was published his Religio Laid, a 
poem written to defend the Church of England against 
the dissenters ; yet evincing a sceptical spirit with regard 
to revealed religion. His doubts, however, about religion 
were dispelled when he embraced the Roman Catholic 
faith. Satisfied with the prospect of an infallible guide, he 
exclaimed ; 

Good life, be now my task—my doubts are done. 

The first public fruits of his conversion were a contro¬ 
versial poem of great force and beauty of versification, 
The, Hind, and the Panther (1687). The milk-white Hind 
is the Church of Rome ; the spotted Panther is the Church 
of England; while the Independents, Quakers, Calvinists, 
and other sects, are represented by bears, hares, wolves, 
and other animals. The following opening lines, which 
Johnson styles lofty, elegant, and musical, rank among the 
most beautiful in our language : 

A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged, 

Fed on the lawns, and in the forest ranged; 

Without unspotted, innocent within, 

She feared no danger, for she knew no sin. 

Yet had she oft been chased with horns and hounds, 

And Scythian shafts, and many-winged wounds, 

Aimed at her heart; was often forced to fly, 

And doomed to death, though fated not to die. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 203 

“ The wit in the Hind and Panther says Hallam, “ is 
sharp, ready, and pleasant; the reasoning’ is sometimes 
admirably close and strong ; it is the energy of Bossuet in 
verse.” “A more just and complete estimate of his natural 
and acquired powers, of the merits of his style and of its 
blemishes, may be formed from the Hind and Panther , 
than from any of his other writings.”* Dryden also gave 
to the world versions of Juvenal and Persius, and a still 
weightier task, his celebrated translation of Yirgil pub¬ 
lished in 1697, which Pope hesitates not to characterize as 
the most noble and spirited translation he knew of in any 
language. The Ode to St. Cecilia , commonly called 
Alexander's Feast, was Dryden’s next effort. It is the 
loftiest and most imaginative of all his compositions, and 
one of the noblest lyrics in the English language. 

The Fables, published in his sixty-eighth year, are 
imitations of Boccacio and Chaucer, and afford the finest 
specimens of Dryden’s happy versification : 

‘ The varying verse, the full resounding line, 

The long majestic march, and energy divine.’—Pope. 

At this advanced age, his fancy was even brighter and 
more prolific than ever. Like a calm and brilliant sunset, 
it shed a lustre on the last days of the poet. 

His principal prose compositions are his Essny on Dra¬ 
matic Poetry , and his admirable Prefaces and Dedications. 
If there is a doubt whether he can rank with the first class 
of poets, there can be no question of his preeminence as a 
writer of prose. “ The matchless prose of Dryden,” says 
Lord Brougham, “is rich, various, natural, animated, 
pointed, lending itself to the logical as well as the narra¬ 
tive and picturesque; never balking, never cloying, never 


* Macaulay. 



204 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


wearying. The vigor, freedom, variety, copiousness that 
speaks an exhaustless fountain from its source: nothing 
can surpass Dryden.” “The prose of Dryden,” says Sir 
Walter Scott, “ may rank with the best in the English 
language. It is no less of his own formation than his 
versification ; it is equally spirited, and equally harmo¬ 
nious.” 

A complete edition of his writings, both in prose and 
verse, was published by Sir Walter Scott, the whole 
extending to eighteen volumes octavo. 

In disposition and moral character, Dryden is repre¬ 
sented as most amiable. He declares, however, that he 
was not one of those whose sprightly sayings diverted 
company. One of his censurers makes him remark of 
himself, 

‘ To writing bred, I knew not what to say.’ 

By Congreve, who spoke from observation, he is described 
as ‘very modest and very easily to be discountenanced, in 
his approaches to his equals or superiors.’ “ If,” remarks 
Sir Walter Scott, “we are to judge of Dryden’s sincerity 
in his new faith by the determined firmness with which he 
retained it, we must allow him to have been a martyr, or 
at least a confessor in the Catholic cause.” His death was 
occasioned by an inflammation of the feet, which terminated 
in mortification, May, 1700. He died in the profession of 
the Catholic faith, with submission and resignation to 
the divine will. His body was interred in Westminster 
Abbey, next to the tomb of Chaucer. 

Reason but an aid to Faith. 

From Religio Laid. 

Dim as the borrowed beams of moon and stars 
To lonely, weary, wandering travellers, 

Is Reason to the soul: and, as on high, 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


205 


Those rolling fires discover but the sky, 

Not light us here ; so Reason’s glimmering ray 
Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, 

But guide us upward to a better day. 

And as those nightly tapers disappear, 

When day’s bright lord ascends our hemisphere; 

So pale grows Reason at Religion’s sight; 

So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light. 

Some few whose lamps shone brighter, have been led 
From cause to cause, to nature’s secret head; 

And found that one first principle must be: 

But what, or who, that universal He ; 

Whether some soul encompassing this ball, 

Unmade, unmoved ; yet making, moving all; 

Or various atoms’ interfering dance 
Leaped into form, the noble work of chance ; 

Or this great all was from eternity; 

Not e’en the Stagirite himself could see; 

And Epicurus,guessed as well as he: 

And blindly groped they for a future state; 

As rashly judged of providence and fate : 

But least of all could their endeavours find 
What most concerned the good of human kind : 

For happiness was never to be found ; 

But vanished from ’em like enchanted ground. 

One thought Content the good to be enjoyed: 

This every little accident destroyed: 

The wiser madmen did for Virtue toil: 

A thorny, or at best a barren soil: 

In pleasure some their glutton souls would steep 
But found their line too short, the well too deep; 
And leaky vessels which no bliss could keep. 

Thus anxious thoughts in endless circles roll, 
Without a centre where to fix the soul: 

In this wild maze their vain endeavours end : 

IIow can the less the greater comprehend ? 

Or finite reason reach Infinity? 

For what could fathom God were more than He. 

18 


206 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Alexander’s Feast, 

An Ode in honour of St. Cecilia's Day. 

’Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip’s warlike son ; 

Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sate 

On his imperial throne 
His valiant peers were plac’d around ; 

Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound,— 

So should desert in arms be crown’d: 

The lovely Thais, by his side, 

Sate, like a blooming eastern bride, 

In flower of youth and beauty’s pride. 

Happy, happy, happy pair ! 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave deserves the fair. 

Timotheus, plac’d on high 
Amid the tuneful quire, 

With flying fingers touch’d the lyre: 

The trembling notes ascend the sky, 

And heavenly joys inspire. 

Sooth’d with the sound, the king grew vain ; 

Fought all his battles o’er again ; 

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slai 
The master saw the madness rise; 

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; 

And, while he Heaven and Earth defied, 

Chang’d his hand, and check’d his pride. 

He chose a mournful Muse, 

Soft pity to infuse : 

He sung Darius great and good, 

By too severe a fate 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 

Fallen from his high estate, 

And wclt’ring in his blood ; 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


201 


Deserted at his utmost need 
By those his former bounty fed : 

On the bare earth expos’d he lies, 

With not a friend to close his eyes. 

With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
^Revolving in his alter’d soul 

The various turns of Chance below; 
And now and then a sigh he stole, 

And tears began to flow. 


The mighty master smil’d, to see 
That love was in the next degree : 

’Twas but a kindred sound to move, 

For pity melts the mind to love. 

Softly sweet in Lydian measures 
Soon he sooth’d his soul to pleasures. 

War, he sung, is toil and trouble: 

Honour but an empt} 1, bubble ; 

Never ending, still beginning, 

Fighting still, and still destroying; 

If the world be worth thy winning, 
Think, O think it worth enjoying: 

Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 

Take the good the gods provide thee ! 

The many rend the skies with loud applause; 

So Love was crown’d, but Music won the cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 

Gaz’d on the fair 
Who caus’d his care, 

And sigh’d and look’d, sigh’d and look’d, 
Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again : 

At length, with love and wine at once oppress’d, 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 

Now strike the golden lyre again : 

A louder yet and yet a louder strain. 

Break his bands of sleep asunder, 

And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 
Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head ! 


20S 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


As awaked from the dead, 

And amaz’d he stares around. 

Revenge ! revenge ! Timotheus cries, 

See the Furies arise : 

See the snakes that they rear, 

How they hiss in their hair, 

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 

Behold a ghastly band, 

Each a torch in his hand! 

Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 
And unburied remain 
Inglorious on the plain : 

Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew ! 

Behold how they toss their torches on high, 

How they point to the Persian abodes, 

And glittering temples of their hostile gods ! 

The princes applaud with a furious joy ; 

And the king seiz’d a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 
Thais led the way, 

To light him to his prey, 

And, like another Helen, fir’d another Troy. 

Thus, long ago, 

Ere heaving bellows learn’d to blow, 

While organs yet were mute ; 

Timotheus to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre 

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 

At last divine Cecilia came, 

Inventress of the vocal frame; 

The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store 
Enlarg’d the former narrow bounds, 

And added length to solemn sounds, 

With Nature’s mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown ; 

He rais’d a mortal to the skies, 

She drew an angel down. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


209 


Christian Resignation under Human Reproach. 

From The Hind and Panther. 

Be vengeance wholly left to powers divine ! . . . 

It joys hereafter must be purchased here, 

"With loss of all that mortals hold most dear, 

Then welcome infamy and public shame, 

And last, a long farewell to worldly fame ! 

’Tis said with ease, but, oh, how hardly tried 
By haughty souls to human honour tied ! 

Oh, sharp convulsive pangs of agonizing pride! 

Down then, thou rebel, never more to rise ! 

And what thou didst, and dost, so dearly prize; 

That fame, that darling fame, make that thy sacrifice ;— 
’Tis nothing thou hast given; then add thy tears 
For a long race of unrepenting years ; 

’Tis nothing yet, yet all thou hast to give ; 

Then add those may-be years thou hast to live ; 

Yet nothing still; then poor and naked come ; 

Thy Father will receive his unthrift home, 

And thy blessed Saviour’s blood discharge the mighty sum. 

A Storm in Harvest. 

From The Translation of the JEneid. 

Ev’n when the farmer, now secure of fear, 

Sends in the swains to spoil the finish’d year, 

Fv’n when the reaper fills his greedy hands, 

And binds the goldcd sheaves in brittle bands, 

Oft have I seen a sudden storm arise 

From all the warring winds that sweep the skies, 

The heavy harvest from the root is torn, 

And whirl’d aloft the lighter stubble borne; 

With such a force the flying rack is driv’n : 

And such a winter wears the face of heav’n : 

The lofty skies at once come pouring down ; 

The promis’d crop and golden labours drown. 

The dikes are fill'd, and with a roaring sound 
The rising rivers float the nether ground ; 

And rocks the bellowing voice of boiling seas rebound. 

18* 


210 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Tho father of the gods his glory shrouds, 

Involv’d in tempests and a night of clouds; 

And from the middle darkness flashing out, 

By fits he deals his fiery bolts about. 

Deep horror seizes ev’ry human breast, 

Their pride is humbled, and their fear confest, 

While he from high his rolling thunder throws, 

And fires the mountains with repeated blows : 

The rocks are from their old foundations rent; 

The winds redouble, and the rains augment: 

The waves in heaps are dash’d against the shore, 

And now the woods and now the billows roar. 

History. 

It may now be expected that, having written the life of a his¬ 
torian [Plutarch], I should take occasion to write somewhat con¬ 
cerning history itself. But 1 think to commend it is unnecessary, 
for the profit and pleasure of that study are so very obvious, that 
a quick reader will be beforehand with me, and imagine faster 
than I can write. Besides that the post is taken up already ; and 
few authors have travelled this way, but who have strewed it 
with rhetoric as they passed. For my own part, who must 
confess it to my shame, that I never read anything but for 
pleasure, it has always been the most delightful entertainment of 
my life ; but they who have employed the study of it, as they 
ought, for their instruction, for the regulation of their private 
manners, and the management of public affairs, must agree with 
me that it is the most pleasant school of wisdom. It is a famil¬ 
iarity with past ages, and an acquaintance with all the heroes of 
them ; it is, if you will pardon the similitude, a prospective 
glass, carrying your soul to a vast distance, and taking in the 
farthest objects of antiquity. It informs the understanding by 
the memory; it helps us to judge of what will happen, by 
showing us the like revolutions of former times. For mankind 
being the same in all ages, agitated by the same passions, and 
moved to action by the same interests, nothing can come to pass 
but some precedent of the like nature has already been produced ; 
so that, having tho causes before our eyes, we cannot easily be 
deceived in the effects, if we have judgment enough but to draw 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 211 

the parallel. God, it is true, with his divine providence overrules 
and guides all actions to the secret end ho has ordained them ; 
hut in the way of human causes, a wise man may easily discern 
that there is a natural connection betwixt them ; and, though he 
cannot foresee accidents, or all things that possibly can come, he 
may apply examples, and by them foretell that from the like 
counsels will probably succeed the like events ; and thereby in 
all concernments, and all offices of life, be instructed in the two 
main points on which depend our happiness—that is, what to 
avoid, and what to choose. 

JOSEPH ADDISON, 1672-1719. 

Joseph Addison, whom Macaulay styles the greatest of 
English* essayists, was born at Milston in Wiltshire, in 
1672. At the age of fifteen, he entered the University of 
Oxford, and applied himself with such diligence to classical 
learning, that he acquired an elegant Latin style before he 
arrived at that age in which lads usually begin to write 
good English. In his twenty-second year, he addressed 
some verses to Dryden, which were highly praised by 
eminent judges. In 1699, he left England on a visit to 
the classic soil of Italy ; and, soon after his return, pub¬ 
lished his Travels in Italy , a work which Dr. Johnson 
says might have been written at home. 

He was a contributor to the celebrated periodical paper, 
the Taller , a series of essays on literature and manners, 
characterized by raciness of humor, and by vivacity and 
urbanity of tone. The first number of the Tatler ap¬ 
peared in 1709. It was succeeded by the Spectator , 
another periodical issued daily, Sundays excepted, until 
December 1712, and resumed in June 1714, the whole 
number of essays amounting to 635. The intermediate 
time w r as filled up with the essays of a third periodical 
entitled the Guardian , to which Addison largely con¬ 
tributed. The papers of the Spectator contributed by 


212 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Addison, are marked by one of the letters in the name 
Clio; and those of the Guardian , by a hand. They may 
be ranged under the comic, the serious, and the critical. 
His humor is peculiar; his satire easy and delicate; and 
he is greatly to be commended for his endeavor, as he him¬ 
self says in No. 10 of the Spectator, ‘to enliven morality 
with wit and to temper wit with morality.’ But the two 
are so frequently iu antagonism that it is difficult always 
to preserve the one without some sacrifice of the other, 
and few great wits even among divines have completely 
mastered this difficulty. His serious papers are distin¬ 
guished by beauty, propriety, and elegance of style. 

His tragedy of Cato was represented in 1713 ; and owing 
to party feelings met, at the time, with extraordinary suc¬ 
cess. But it is now comparatively neglected, although 
abounding with noble sentiments. As a poet, Addison 
does not take the highest rank. One of his best pieces is 
his poetical Letter to Lord Halifax from Italy, in 1701. 
“ Its versification,” says Dr. Drake, “is remarkably sweet 
and polished ; its vein of description usually rich and clear, 
and its sentiments often pathetic, and sometimes even sub¬ 
lime.” 

The Evidences of Christianity, a prose work, was 
useful at the time, as recommending the subject by ele¬ 
gance and perspicuity to popular notice, but since super¬ 
seded by more complete treatises. 

“ Perhaps no English writer,” says Allibone, “ has been 
so fortunate as Addison in uniting so many discordant 
tastes in a unanimous verdict of approbation. Browne 
has been thought pedantic, Johnson inflated, Taylor con¬ 
ceited, and Burke exuberant; but the graceful simplicity 
of Addison delights alike the rude taste of the uneducated, 
and the classic judgment of the learned.” Dr. Johnson 
has pronounced the well known verdict in his favor: 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


213 


“ Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but 
not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his 
days and nights to the volumes of Addison.” 

Addison was a sincere believer in the Christian revela¬ 
tion. In politics, earnest but not violent, he was respected 
by individuals of both parties. Serious and reserved in 
his manners, modest and even timid in society, he spoke 
little before strangers ; but he was easy, fluent, and familiar 
in the company of his friends. 

He had long been subject to asthma, and this, together 
with a dropsical affection, soon made it evident that his 
hour of dissolution could not be far distant. The event, 
which he*calmly anticipated, took place in Holland-house, 
in 1!19. 


The Vision of Mirza. 

From Spectator , No. clix. 

When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several Oriental 
manuscripts, which I have still by me. Among others, I met 
with one entitled, ‘ The Visions of Mirza, ; which I have read 
over with pleasure. I intend to give it to the public when I have 
no other entertainment for them, and shall begin with the first 
vision, which I have translated word for word as follows : 

On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom 
of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed 
myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the 
high hills of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in medi¬ 
tation and prayer. As I was here airing, myself on the tops of 
the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity 
of human life ; and, passing from one thought to another, surely, 
said I, man is but a shadow, and life a dream. Whilst I was 
thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that 
was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a 
shepherd, with a little musical instrument in his hands. As I 
looked upon him, he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon 
it. The sound of it was exceedingly sweet, and wrought into a 
variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether 


214 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


different from anything I had ever heard. They put me in mind 
of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed souls of 
good men upon their first arrival in paradise, to wear out the 
impressions of the last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures 
of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures. 
I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a 
genius, and that several had been entertained with music who 
had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before 
made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those 
transporting airs which he played, to taste the pleasures of his 
conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he 
beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand directed me to 
approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence 
which is due to a superior nature; and, as my heart was entirely 
subdued by the captivating strains 1 had heard, I fell down at 
his feet and wept. 

The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and 
affability that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once 
dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I approached 
him. He lifted me from the ground, and, taking me by the 
hand, ‘ Murza,’ said he, ‘I have heard thee in thy soliloquies; 
follow me.’ 

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing 
me on the top of it, ‘ Cast thine eyes eastward,’ said he, ‘ and tell 
me what thou seest.’ ‘ I see,’ said I, ‘ a huge valley, and a 
prodigious tide of water rolling through it.’ ‘ The valley that 
thou seest,’ said he, ‘is the vale of misery, and the tide of water 
that thou seest, is part of the great tide of eternity.’ ‘What is 
the reason,’ said I, ‘ that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at 
one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other.’ 
‘ What thou seest,’ said he, * is that portion of eternity which is 
called Time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the 
beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now,’ 
said he, ‘ this sea that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and 
tell me what thou discoverest in it.’ ‘I see a bridge,’ said I, 
‘ standing in the midst of the tide.’ ‘ The bridge thou seest,’ said 
he, ‘is Human Life; consider it attentively.’ Upon a more 
leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of threescore and 
ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which, added to 
those that were entire, made up the number to about a hundred. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


215 


As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that this bridge 
consisted at first of a thousand arches, but that a great flood swept 
away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now 
beheld it. ‘ But tell me further,’ said he, ‘ what thou discoverest 
on it.’ ‘I see multitudes of people passing over it,’ said I, ‘ and 
a black cloud hanging on each end of it.’ As I looked more 
attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through 
the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and, 
upon further examination, perceived there were innumerable 
trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers 
no sooner trod upon, but they fell through them into the tide, 
and immediately disappeared. These hidden pitfalls were set 
very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people 
no sooner broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into 
them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied 
and lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were 
entire. 

There were indeed some persons, but their number was very 
small, that continued a kind of hobbing march on the broken 
arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and 
spent with so long a walk. 

I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful 
structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. 
My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several drop¬ 
ping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching 
at every thing that stood by them to save themselves. Some 
were looking up towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, 
and, in the midst of a speculation, stumbled, and fell out of sight. 
Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glit¬ 
tered in their eyes and danced before them; but often when they 
thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing 
failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects, I 
observed some with scimitars in their hands, and others who ran 
to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap¬ 
doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they 
might have escaped—had they not been thus forced upon them. 

The genius seeing me indulge myself on this melancholy pros¬ 
pect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. ‘ Take thine eyes 
otf the bridge,’ said he, ‘ and tell me if thou yet seest anything 
thou dost not comprehend ’ Upon looking up, ‘What mean,’ 


216 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


said I, 1 those great flights of birds that are perpetually hovering 
about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to time ? I see 
vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and, among many other 
feathered creatures, several little winged boys, that perch in great 
numbers upon the middle arches.' ‘ These,’ said the genius, ‘ are 
Envy, Avarice, Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like cares 
and passions that infest Human Life.’ 

I here fetched a deep sigh. ‘Alas,’ said 1, ‘ man was made in 
vain 1—how is he given away to misery and mortality 1—tortured 
in life, and swallowed up in death! ’ The genius being moved 
with compassion towards me, bade me quit so uncomfortable a 
prospect. ‘ Look no more,’ said he, ‘ on man in the first stage of 
his existence, in his setting out for eternity, but cast thine eye on 
that thick mist into which the tide bears the several generations 
of mortals that fall into it.’ I directed my sight as I was ordered, 
and—whether or no the good genius strengthened it with any 
supernatural force, or dissipated part of the mist that was before 
too thick for the eye to penetrate—1 saw the valley opening at 
the further end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean, that 
had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and 
dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one 
half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it; but the 
other appeared to me a vast ocean planted with innumerable 
islands that were covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven 
with a thousand little shining seas that ran among them. I 
could see persons dressted in glorious habits, with garlands upon 
their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of 
fountains, or resting on beds of flowers, and could hear a confused 
harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and 
musical instruments. Gladness grew in me upon the discovery 
of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle that 
I might fly away to those happy seats, but the genius told me 
there was no passage to them except through the Gates of Death 
that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. ‘The 
islands,’ said he, ‘ that lie so fresh and green before thee, and 
with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as 
thou canst see, are more in number than the sands on the sea¬ 
shore; there are myriads of islands behind those which thou 
here discoverest, reaching farther than thine eye, or even thine 
imagination, can extend itself. These are the mansions of good 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 2It 

men after death, who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue 
in which they excelled, are distributed among these several 
islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and 
degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of those who are 
settled in them. Every island is a paradise accommodated to its 
respective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza! habitations 
worth contending for? Does life appear miserable, that gives 
thee opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be 
feared, that will convey thee to so happy an existence? Think 
not man was made in vain, who has such an eternity reserved for 
him.’ I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happy 
islands. At length, said I: ‘ Shew me now, I beseech thee, the 
secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which cover the 
ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant.' The genius 
making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him 
a second time, but I found that he had left me. I then turned 
again to the vision which I had been so long contemplating, but 
instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy 
islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdad, with 
oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it. 

DANIEL DEFOE, 1661-1731. 

Daniel Defoe, a writer of great ingenuity and fertility 
of invention, considered by some as the founder of the 
English novel, was born in London in 1661. His father’s 
name was simply Foe. He was educated for the ministry 
in a dissenting sect; but embraced a mercantile career. 
We find him successively hosier, tile-maker, woollen mer¬ 
chant, and political pamphleteer. In 1702, the publication 
of a piece of irony entitled The shortest Way with the 
Dissenters, occasioned his imprisonment in Newgate for 
two years. Whilst in Newgate, he published a periodical 
called The Review, which is supposed to have given Steele 
the hint for his Tatler. When nearly sixty years of age he 
published his first prose fiction, Robinson Crusoe, which 
met with extraordinary success. This was soon followed 
19 



218 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


by a number of other lives and adventures, among which 
may be mentioned The Dumb Philosopher, Captain Sin¬ 
gleton, Duncan Campbell, Colonel Jacque, the Journal 
of the Plague in 1665. He wrote in all two hundred and 
ten books and pamphlets. 

His Robinson Crusoe is not only the first in the order 
of time of that class of works in our language; but to 
this day remains unrivalled in many important particulars. 
Johnson has said of it, “Nobody ever laid it down, with¬ 
out wishing it were longer.” Defoe had a perfect mastery 
of the art of invention, an almost unbounded power in 
creating incidents and situations. His minute and circum¬ 
stantial details, combined with their entire naturaluess, 
cheat the reader into a belief of the reality and truth of 
what he reads. In this power of feigning reality, or, as 
Sir Walter Scott terms it, of ‘ forging the hand-writing of 
nature,’ he has never been surpassed. Nor is the author’s 
idiomatic English style the smallest of his merits. 

“ He is,” says Spalding, “ very far from being an immoral 
writer: but most of his scenes are such as we cannot be 
benefited by contemplating. One cannot but regret his 
constant selection of vicious characters and lawless adven¬ 
turers as the objects of his descriptions.” 

After repeated struggles with want and disease, this 
voluminous writer closed a long and agitated existence in 
1131. “I have sometime ago,”*says he of himself, “ summed I 
up the scenes of my life in this distich: 

No man has tasted differing fortunes more; 

And thirteen times I have been rich and poor.” 

The Plaque at Blackwall. 

From the Journal of the Plague. 

Much about the same time I walked out into the fields towards 
Bow, for I had a great mind to see how things were managed in 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


219 


the river, and among the ships; and as I had some concern in 
shipping, I had a notion that it had been one of the best ways of 
securing one’s self from the infection, to have retired into a ship ; 
and musing how to satisfy my curiosity in that point, I turned 
away over the fields, from Bow to Bromley, and down .to Black- 
wall, to the stairs that are there for landing or taking water. 

Here I saw a poor man walking on the bank or sea-wall, as 
they call it, by himself. I walked awhile also about, seeing the 
houses all shut up; at last I fell into some talk, at a distance, with 
this poor man. First I asked him how people did thereabouts? 
Alas! sir, says he, almost desolate; all dead or sick: here aro 
very few families in this part, or in that village, pointing at 
Poplar, where half of them are not dead already, and the rest 
sick. Then pointing to one house, there they are all dead, said 
he, and the house stands open; nobody dares go into it. A poor 
thief, says he, ventured in to steal something, but he paid dear 
for his theft, for he was carried to the churchyard too, last night. 
Then he pointed to several other houses. There, says he, they 
are all dead, the man and his wife and five children. There, 
says he, they are shut up; you see a watchman at the door, and 
so of other houses. Why, said I, what do you do here all alone ? 
'Why, says he, I am a poor desolate man; it hath pleased God I 
am not yet visited, though my family is, and one of my children 
dead. How do you mean then, said I, that you are not visited? 
Why, says he, that is my house, pointing to a very little low 
boarded house, and there my wife and two poor children live, said 
he, if they may be said to live; for my wife and one of the chil¬ 
dren are visited, but I do not come at them. And with that word 
I saw the tears run very plentifully down his face; and so they 
did down mine too, I assure you. 

But, said I, why do you not come at them ? How can you 
abandon your own flesh and blood? Oh, sir, says he, the Lord 
forbid; I do not abandon them; I work for them as pinch as I 
am able; and, blessed be the Lord, I keep them from want. And 
with that I observed he lifted up his eyes to heaven with a coun¬ 
tenance that presently told me I had happened on a man that 
was no hypocrite, but a serious, religious, good man; and his 
ejaculation was an expression of thankfulness, that, in such a 
condition as he was in, he should be able to say his family did 
not want. Well, said I, honest man, that is a great mercy, as 


220 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


things go now with the poor. But how do you live then, and 
how are you kept from the dreadful calamity that is now upon 
us all? Why, sir, says he, I am a waterman, and there is my 
hoat, says he, and the boat serves me for a house; I work in it 
in the day, and I sleep in it in the night, and what I get I lay it 
down upon that stone, says he, showing me a hroad stone on the 
other side of the street, a good way from his house; and then, 
says he, I halloo and call to them till I make them hear, and 
they come and fetch it. 

Well, friend, said I, but how can you get money as a water¬ 
man? Does anybody go by water these times? Yes, sir, says 
he, in the way I am employed there docs. Do you see there, says 
he, five ships lie at anchor? pointing down the river a good way 
below the town ; and do you see, says he, eight or ten ships lie 
at the chain there, and at anchor yonder ? pointing above the 
town. All those ships have families on board, of their merchants 
and owners, and such like, who have locked themselves up, and 
live on board, close shut in, for fear of the infection; and I tend 
on them to fetch things for them, carry letters, and do what is 
absolutely necessary, that they may not be obliged to come on 
shore; and every night I fasten my boat on board one of the 
ship’s boats, and there I sleep by myself; and blessed be God I 
am preserved hitherto. . . . Here he stopt, and wept very much. 

Well, honest friend, said I, thou hast a sure comforter, if thou 
hast brought thyself to be resigned to the will of God ; he is deal¬ 
ing with us all in judgment. 

Oh, sir, says he, it is infinite mercy if any of us are spared; and 
■who am I, to repine? 


Eouinson Crusoe Discovers the Foot-print. 

It happened one day about noon, going towards my boat, I was 
exceedingly surprised with the print of a man’s naked foot on the 
shore, which was -very plain to be seen in the sand: I stood like 
one thunder-struck, or as if I had seen an apparition ; I listened, 
I looked around me, I could hear nothing, nor see any thing; I 
went up to a rising ground to look farther; I went up the shore 
and down the shore, but it was all one, I could see no other im¬ 
pression but that one: I went to it again to see if there were any 
more, and to observe if it might not be my fancy; but there was 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


221 


no room for that, for there was exactly the very print of a foot, 
toes, heel, and every part of a foot. How it came thither I knew 
not, nor could in the least imagine. But after innumerable flut¬ 
tering thoughts, like a man perfectly confused, and out of myself, 
I came home to my fortification, not feeling, as we say, the ground 
1 went on, but terrified to the last degree, looking behind me at 
every two or three steps, mistaking every bush and tree, and 
fancying every stump at a distance to be a man ; nor is it possible 
to describe how many various shapes an affrighted imagination 
represented things to me in ; how many wild ideas were formed 
every moment in my fancy, and what strange, unaccountable 
whimsies came into my thoughts by the way. 

When I came to my castle, for so I think I called it ever after 
this, I fled into it like one pursued ; whether I went over by the 
ladder, sft‘ first contrived, or went in at the hole in the rock, which 
I called a door, I cannot remember; for never frighted hare fled 
to cover, or fox to earth, with more terror of mind than I to this 
retreat. 

How strange a chequer-work of Providence is the life of man ! 
And by what secret differing springs are the affections hurried 
about, as differing circumstances permit 1 To-day we love what 
to-morrow we hate; to-day we seek what to-morrow we shun ; 
to-day we desire what to-morrow we fear; nay, even tremble at 
the apprehensions of. This was exemplified in me at this time 
in the most lively manner imaginable; for I, whose only affliction 
was, that I seemed banished from human society, that I was alone, 
circumscribed by the boundless ocean, cut off from mankind, and 
condemned to what I call a silent life ; that I was as one whom 
Heaven thought not worthy to be numbered among the living, or 
to appear among the rest of his creatures ; that to have seen one 
of my own species would have seemed to me a raising me from 
death to life, and the greatest blessing that Heaven itself, next to 
the supreme blessing of salvation, could bestow; X say, that I 
should now tremble at the very apprehensions of seeing a man, 
and was ready to sink into the ground, at but the shadow, or silent 

appearance of a man’s having set his foot on the island !. 

However, as I went down thus two or three days, and having 
seen nothing, I began to be a little bolder, and to think there was 
really nothing in it but my own imagination. But I could not 

19 * 



222 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


persuade myself fully of this, till I should go down to the shore 
again, and see this print of a foot, and measure it by my own, 
and see if there was any similitude or fitness, that I might be 
assured it was my own foot. But when I came to the place first, 
it appeared evidently to me, that when I laid up my boat, I could 
not possibly be on shore anywhere thereabouts. Secondly, when 
I came to measure the mark with my own foot, I found my foot 
not so large by a great deal. Both these things filled my head 
with new imaginations, and gave me the vapors again to the 
highest degree ; so that I shook with cold, like one in an ague; 
and I went home again, filled with the belief, that some man or 
men had been on shore there; or, in short, that the island was 
inhabited, and I might be surprised before I was aware; and 
what course to take for my security, I knew not. O what ridicu¬ 
lous resolutions men take, when possessed with fear ! It deprives 
them of the use of those means which reason offers for their 
relief. 


ALEXANDER TOPE, 1688-1744. 

The chief representative name in the literature of Queen 
Anne’s time, is that of Alexander Pope. He was born in 
London of Roman Catholic parents in 1688. His early 
education, on account of his feeble frame and delicate con¬ 
stitution, was chiefly domestic; and he was placed, at the 
age of eight years, under the care of a Catholic priest 
from whom he learned the rudiments of Latin and Greek. 
At a very early period he manifested the greatest fondness 
for poetry. Whilst at the school at Hyde-park-corner, he 
formed a play taken from Ogilby’s Homer, intermixed with 
verses of his own ; and had it acted by his school-fellows. 
About his twelfth year, he was taken home and privately 
instructed by another priest who lived in the neighborhood. 
To this period is assigned his Ode on Solitude. He him¬ 
self says: 

As vet a child, and all unknown to fame, 

I lisped in numbers, and the numbers came. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


223 


He subsequently appears to have been the director of 
his own studies, and to have continued them with perse¬ 
vering energy with little assistance from others. At the 
age of sixteen he wrote his Pastorals , remarkable for their 
correct and musical versification, and more remarkable still 
for the Discourse on Pastoral Poetry which introduces 
them. In 1711 appeared his Essay on Criticism , un¬ 
questionably one of the finest pieces of argumentative and 
reasoning poetry in the English language. At the age of 
twenty-five, he issued proposals for the Translation of the 
Iliad, a work which was accomplished in five years, and 
whose great and signal merits justly elicited the warmest 
eulogiutfis from the literary world. “ But in the most gen¬ 
eral applause,” says Dr. Johnson, “discordant voices will 
always be heard. It has been objected that Pope’s version 
of Homer is not Homerical. In estimating this transla¬ 
tion, consideration must be had of the nature of our lan¬ 
guage, the form of our metre, and above all of the change 
which two thousand years have made in the modes of life, 
and the habits of thought. It will be found, in the pro¬ 
gress of learning, that in all nations the first writers are 
simple, and that every age improves in elegance. One 
refinement always makes way for another; and what was 
expedient to Virgil, was necessary to Pope. Pope wrote 
for his own age and his own nation.” 

Among the poet’s later works were his Satires and 
Epistles in imitation of Horace. In the Dunciad , he 
showed a discreditable bitterness of temper in satirizing 
obscure writers. Ilis great ethical poem, the Essay on 
Man, although abounding in theological errors, yet con¬ 
tains more than any other of his compositions, many 
striking passages, which by mingled felicity of diction and 
energetic brevity will always have a place in the memory 
of every English scholar. In this and some others of his 


224 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


writings, many think that they perceive the overshadowing 
and malignant influence of the friendship of Lord Boling- 
broke, one of the leading deistical writers of the eighteenth 
century. 

Pope’s rank as a poet has been a subject of much dis¬ 
pute. In sublimity, imagination, and pathos, he cannot 
enter into comparison with Spenser, Shakspeare, Milton ; 
and, when compared with Dryden, the mind hesitates in 
the allotment of superiority. However, Shakspeare alone 
excepted, perhaps no other English poet has furnished a 
greater amount of single lines for apt and happy quotation. 

Ilis private character, it lias been admitted, was not. 
without faults; and they have been too severely exposed 
in some recent editions of his works. It has been con¬ 
ceded, however, even by the most unfavorable of his biog¬ 
raphers, Rev. R. W. Bowles, that ‘ he was a most dutiful 
and affectionate son, a kind master, a sincere friend, and 
generally speaking a benevolent man.’ Dr. Johnson says 
of the first-mentioned beautiful trait in his character: 
“ The filial piety of Pope was in the highest degree ami¬ 
able and exemplary. His parents had the happiness of 
living till he was at the summit of poetical reputation, at 
ease in his fortune, and without a rival in his fame ; and 
found no diminution of his respect or tenderness.” 

He bad, for at least five years, been afflicted with an 
asthma and other disorders, which his physicians were 
unable to relieve. A short time before his death, he com¬ 
plained of his inability to think, yet said, “ I am so certain 
of the soul being immortal, that I seem to feel it within 
me, as it were by intuition.” Such was the fervor of his 
devotion in the last hour of his life, that he exerted all 
his strength to throw himself out of bed, in order to receive 
the last sacraments kneeling on the floor. He calmly ex¬ 
pired in May, 1744. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


225 


Ode on Solitude. 

Happy the man whose wish and care 
A'few paternal acres bound, 

Content to breathe his native air 
In his own ground : 

"Whose herbs with milk, whose fields with bread, 
"Whose flocks supply him with attire— 

"Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 

In winter fire. 

Blessed who can unconcern’dly find 

Hours, days, and years glide soft away, 

In health of body, peace of mind ; 

Quiet by day— 

Sound sleep by night ; study and ease 
Together mixed ; sweet recreation ; 

And innocence which most does please 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live unseen, unknown— 

Thus unlamented let me die ; 

Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 


Pride. 

Prom Essay on Criticism , Part II. 

Of all the causes which conspire to blind 
Man’s erring judgment, and misguide the mind, 
What the weak head with strongest bias.rules, 

Is Pride, the never-failing vice of fools. 

Whatever Nature has in worth denied, 

She gives in large recruits of needful Pride ! 

For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find 

What wants in blood and spirits, swell’d with wind: 

Pride, where Wit fails, steps in to our defence, 

And fills up all the mighty void of sense. 


226 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


If once right reason drives that cloud away, 

Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. 

Trust not yourself; but, your defects to know, 
Make use of every friend—and every foe. 

A little learning is a dangerous thing! 

Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring : 

There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, 

And drinking largely sobers us again. 

Pired at first sight with what the Muse imparts, 

In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts, 
While, from the bounded level of our mind, 

Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind ; 
But more advanced, behold with strange surprise 
New distant scenes of endless science rise ! 

So pleased at first the towering Alps we try, 

Mount o’er the vales, and seem to tread the sky; 
Th’ eternal snows appear already past, 

And the first clouds and mountains seem the last: 
But, those attain’d, we tremble to survey 
The growing labors of the lengthen’d way ; 

Th’ increasing prospect tries our wandering eyes, 
Hills peep o’er hills, and Alps on Alps arise! 

Prom Essay on Criticism , Part III. 

Learn then what morals critics ought to show, 

Por ’tis but half a judge’s task to know. 

’Tis not enough taste, judgment, learning join, 

In ail you speak, let truth and candor shine; 

That not alone what to your sense is.due 
All may allow, but seek your friendship too. 

Be always silent when you doubt your sense, 

And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence. 
Some positive persisting fools we know, 

Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so; 

But you with pleasure own your errors past, 

And make each day a critique on the last. 

’Tis not enough, your counsel still be true, 

Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do. 
Men must be taught as if you taught them not, 
And things unknown proposed as things forgot. 


TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


22 T 


"Without good breeding truth is disapproved ; 
That only makes superior sense beloved. 

Be niggards of advice on no pretence, 

For the worst avarice is that of sense. 

With mean complacence ne’er betray your trust, 
Nor be so civil as to prove unjust. 

Fear not the anger of the wise to raise: 

Those best can bear reproof who merit praise. 


The Duty of Man to be content wrra the Bank which 

HE HOLDS IN CREATION. 

From Essay on Man , Ep. I. 

. . . On superior powers 

Were we to press, inferior might on ours ; 

Or in the full creation leave a void, 

Where, one step broken, the great scale’s destroyed: 

From Nature’s chain whatever link you strike, 

Tenth, or ten-thousandth, breaks the chain alike. 

What if the foot ordained the dust to tread, 

Or hand to toil, aspired to be the head ? 

What if the head, the eye, or ear, repined 
To serve mere engines to the ruling mind ? 

Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another in this general frame : 

Just as absurd to mourn the tasks, or pains, 

The great directing Mind of all ordains. 

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 

Whose body Nature is, and God the soul; 

That, changed through all, and yet in all the same, 

Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame, 

Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 

Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees; 

Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 

Spreads undivided, operates unspent; 

Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 

As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; 

As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : 


228 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


To him no high, no low, no great, no small; 

He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all! 

Cease then, nor order imperfection name; 

Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 

Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree 
Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. 
Submit—in this or any other sphere, 

Secure to he as blest as thou canst bear; 

Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, 

Or in the natal or the mortal hour. 

All nature is but art unknown to thee; 

All chance direction, which thou canst not see ; 

All discord, harmony not understood ; 

All partial evil, universal good : 

And spite of pride, in erring reason’s spite, 

One truth is clear, Whatever is is right. 

Moonlight Scene. 

Prom the Iliad. 

The troops exulting sat in order round, 

And beaming fires illumined all the ground, 

As wheii the moon, refulgent lamp of night! 

O’er heaven’s clear azure spreads her sacred light 
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, 

And not a cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene; 
Around her throne the vivid planets roll, 

And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole ; 

O’er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, 

And tip with silver every mountain’s head; 

Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, 

A flood of glory bursts from all the skies: 

The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight, 

Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light. 

So many flames before proud Ilion blaze, 

And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays ; 
The long reflections of the distant fires 
Gleam on the walls and tremble on the spires. 

A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild, 

And shoot a shady lustre o’er the field. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


229 


Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend, 

"Whose umbered arms, by fits, thick flashes send ; 

Loud neigh the coursers o’er their heaps of corn, 

And ardent warriors -wait the rising morn. 

Detached Passages. 

’Tis with our judgments as our watches ; none 
Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 

Essay on Criticism , line 10. 

True wit is nature to advantage dress’d, 

What oft was thought, but ne’er so well express’d. Ib. 297. 

Words are like leaves; and where they most abound, 

Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. lb. 310. 

Envy will Merit, as its shade, pursue; 

But, like a shadow, prove the substance true. Ib. 467. 

Good nature and good sense must ever join ; 

To err is human, to forgive, Divine. Ib. 521. 

O death, all eloquent! You only prove 
What dust we doat on, when ’tis man we love. 

Eloisa to Abelard. 


For virtue only makes our bliss below ; 

And all our knowledge is, ourselves to know. 

Essay on Man, iv. 397. 

’Tis education forms the common mind, 

And as the twig is bent, the tree’s inclin’d. 

Moral Essays, ep. i. 150. 

Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, 

Will never mark the marble with his name. Ib. iii. 286. 


JONATHAN SWIFT, 1667-1745. 

Jonathan Swift, more commonly known as Dean Swift, 
whom Yoltaire styles the English Rabelais, was born in 
Dublin in 1667. In his academical studies he was either 
20 


230 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


not diligent or not happy. At Trinity College, it was only 
through special favor that he received the degree of 
Bachelor of Arts. To repair the humiliation, he resolved 
to study eight hours a day, and continued his industry for 
seven years. 

In 1704 was published anonymously his celebrated Tale 
of a Tub, the wildest and wittiest of polemical works. It 
was designed as a burlesque and satire, to throw ridicule 
upon the Catholics, Lutherans, and Presbyterians, and to 
gain influence for the High Church party. Although it 
advanced his reputation as a wit, it did him no small injury 
as a divine; for it contained much to which any clergy¬ 
man might well scruple to put his name. The Battle of 
the Books, appended to the Tale of a Tub, is a bur¬ 
lesque comparison between ancient and modern authors, 
in which he exercises his satire against Hryden and 
Bentley. 

In 1713, he was rewarded with the Deanery of St. 
Patrick’s in Dublin, for his political services to the Queen’s 
ministry. Swift was at first disliked in Ireland; but his 
celebrated Letters under the name of M. B. Drapier, in 
which he ably exposed the job of Wood’s patent for sup¬ 
plying Ireland with a copper coinage, and other writings, 
gave him unbounded popularity. It was about this time 
that he composed his famous Giilliver’s Travels, the most 
original of his productions. It appeared in 1726, exhib¬ 
iting a singular union of misanthropy, satire, irony, inge¬ 
nuity, and humor, not unfrequently deviating into unpar¬ 
donable grossness and revolting obscenity. It is really a 
political pamphlet, and contains many satirical allusions to 
the great contending parties of the State; though most of 
the readers feel only the fascination of the story. 

In the latter part of his life, he published another 
burlesque on the frivolities of fashionable life, entitled 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


231 


Polite Conversation. His most important political tracts 
were The Conduct of the Allies, The Public Spirit of 
the Whigs , and the History of the Four Last Years of 
Queen Anne. As a writer, his style offers a good example 
of the easy familiarity that the language affords; but, 
although admirable for its pureness, clearness, and sim¬ 
plicity, it exhibits none of the glow of genius. 

“ His poetical works,” says Dr. Johnson, “ are often 
humorous, almost always light; and have the qualities 
which recommend such compositions, easiness and gayety. 
The diction is correct, the numbers smooth, and the rhymes 
exact. There seldom occurs a hard-labored expression, or 
a redundant epithet; all his verses exemplify his own defi¬ 
nition of a good style: they consist of 1 proper words in 
proper places.’” “Half of the bad writing of the age,” 
says Angus, “is owing to the fact that men have not pos¬ 
sessed themselves of what they wish to say, and the other 
half, to their desire to say it finely and eloquently. Both 
these evils Swift avoids.” 

In 1736, he had an attack of deafness and giddiness. 
The fate, which owing to his constitutional infirmities he 
had always feared, at length reached him. Indeed madness 
or predisposition to madness seemed to be a part and 
parcel of the man, and possibly an element of his genius. 
The faculties of his mind decayed before his body, and the 
gradual decay settled into absolute idiocy early in 1712. 
When he determined to bequeath his fortune to build a 
hospital for lunatics and idiots, he must have been sad at 
heart, although he gaily wrote that he did so merely 

To show by one satiric touch, 

No nation wanted it so much. 

He died in 1745, in his seventy-eighth year. 


232 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Ykrses on ms own Death. 

The time is not remote, when I 
Must by the course of nature die ; 

When, I foresee, my special friends 
Will try to find their private ends : 

And, though ’tis hardly understood, 
Which way my death can do them good, 
Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak: 
See, how the dean begins to break ! 

Poor gentleman! he droops apace ! 

You plainly find it in his face, 

That old vertigo in his head 
Will never leave him, till lie’s dead. 
Besides, his memory decays : 

He recollects not what he says ; 

He cannot call his friends to mind ; 
Forgets the place where last he dined, 
Plies you with stories o’er and o’er ; 

He told them fifty times before. 

How does he fancy we can sit 
To hear his out-of-fashion wit ? 

Behold the fatal da}" arrive ! 

How is the dean ? he’s just alive. 

Now the departing prayer is read ; 

He hardly breathes. The dean is dead. 
Before the passing-bell begun, 
fihe news through half the town has run. 
Oh ! may we all for death prepare ! 

What has he left ? and who’s his heir ? 

I know no more than what the news is, 
’Tis all bequeathed to public uses. 

To public uses! there’s a whim ! 

What had the public done for him ? 

Mere envy, avarice, and pride : 

He gave it all—but first he died. 

And had the dean in all the nation 
No worthy friend, no poor relation ? 

So ready to do strangers good, 

Forgetting his own flesh and blood ! 



TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


2 


Here shift the scene, to represent 
How those I love my death lament. 

Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay 
A week, and Arbuthnot a day. 

St. John himself will scarce forbear 
To bite his pen, and drop a tear. 

The rest will give a shrug, and cry, 

“I’m sorry—but we all must die !” 

Indifference clad in wisdom’s guise, 

All fortitude of mind supplies ; 

For how can stony bowels melt 
In those who never pity felt ? 

Wltdn we are lashed, they kiss the rod, 
Resigning to the will of God. 

Suppose me dead ; and then suppose 
A club assembled at the Rose, 

Where, from discourse of this and that, 

I grow the subject of their chat. 

“ Alas, poor dean ! his only scope 
Was to be held a misanthrope. 

This into general odium drew him, 

Which, if he liked, much good may’t do him. 
His zeal was not to lash our crimes, 

But discontent against the times: 

For, had we made him timely offers, 

To raise his post, or fill his coffers, 

Perhaps he might have truckled down, 

Like other brethren of his gown. 

For party he would scarce have bled : 

I say no more—because he’s dead. 

He gave the little wealth ho had 
To build a house for fools and mad ; 

To show, by one satiric touch, 

No nation wanted it so much. 

That kingdom he has left his debtor ; 

I wish it soon may have a better, 

And, since you dread no further lashes, 
Methinks you may forgive his ashes.” 


234 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Laws of the Lilliputians. 

From Gulliver's Travels. 

There are some laws and customs in this empire very peculiar, 
and, if they were not so directly contrary to those of my own 
dear country, I should he tempted to say a little in their justifica¬ 
tion. It is only to be wished they were as well executed. The 
first I shall mention, relates to informers. All crimes against the 
state are punished here with the utmost severity ; but, if the 
person accused makes his innocence plainly to appear upon his 
trial, the accuser is immediately put to an ignominious death ; 
and out of his goods or lands the innocent person is quadruply 
recompensed for the loss of his time, for the danger he underwent, 
for the hardship of his imprisonment, and for all charges he has 
been at in making his defence. Or, if that fund be deficient, it is 
largely supplied by the crown. The emperor also confers on him 
some public mark of his favor, and proclamation is made of his 
innocence through the whole city. 

They look upon fraud as a greater crime than theft, and there¬ 
fore seldom fail to punish it with death ; for they allege that care 
and vigilance, with a very common understanding, may preserve 
a man’s goods from thieves, but honesty has no fence against 
superior cunning ; and, since it is necessary that there should be 
a perpetual intercourse of buying and selling, and dealing upon 
credit, where fraud is permitted and connived at, or has no law 
to punish it, the honest dealer is always undone, and the knave 
gets the advantage. ......... 

In choosing persons for all employments, they have regard 
more to good morals than to great abilities; for, since government 
is necessary to mankind, they believe that the common size of 
human understanding is fitted to some station or other ; and that 
Providence never intended to make the management of public 
affairs a mystery to be comprehended only by a few persons of 
sublime genius, of which there seldom are three born in an age : 
but they suppose truth, justice, temperance, and the like, to be 
in every man’s power; the practice of which virtues, assisted by 
experience and a good intention, would qualify any man for the 
service of his country, except where a course of study is required. 
But they thought the want of moral virtues was so far from being 


TI1E MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


235 


supplied by superior endowments of the mind, that employments 
could never be put into such dangerous hands as those of persons 
so qualified ; and, at least, that the mistakes committed by ignor¬ 
ance, in a virtuous disposition, would never be of such fatal 
consequence to the public weal as the practices of a man whose 
inclinations led him to be corrupt, and who had great abilities 
to manage, to multiply, and defend his corruptions. 

In like manner, the disbelief of a Divine Providence renders a 
man incapable of holding any public station; for, since beings 
avow themselves to be deputies of Providence, the Lilliputians 
think nothing can be more absurd than for a prince to employ 
such men as disown the authority under which he acts. 

In relating these and the following laws, I would only be 
understood to mean the original institutions, and not the most 
scandalous corruptions into which these people are fallen by the 
degenerate nature of man. For, as to that infamous practice of 
acquiring great employments by dancing on the ropes, or badges 
of favor and distinction by leaping over sticks and creeping under 
them, the reader is to observe that they were first introduced by 
the grandfather of the emperor now reigning, and grew to the 
present height by the gradual increase of party and faction. 


JAMES THOMSON, 1700-1748. 

James Thomson, author of The Seasons , was born in 
Scotland in It00. After completing his academic course 
at the University of Edinburgh, he went to London, taking 
with him his unfinished manuscript poem of Winter. It 
was published in 1726, and in the two succeeding years 
was followed by its beautiful companions, Summer and 
Spring, Autumn not appearing until 1730. The four 
works together compose a complete cycle of the various 
appearances of nature during an English year. In his 
imitations of nature and in originality of expressions, 
Thomson is considered superior to all the descriptive poets 
except Cowper; and, although he is occasionally deficient 
in simplicity and chasteness, he has exhibited in a thousand 


236 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


instances a peculiar felicity in the use of appropriate words, 
which paint almost to the eye 

‘ What oft was thought, hut ne’er so well expressed.’ 

Dr. Johnson has sketched with a masterly hand his 
poetical characteristics: “ He is entited,” says this eminent 
critic, “ to praise of the highest kind—his mode of thinking 
and of expressing his thoughts is original. His numbers, 
his powers, his diction, are of his own growth, without 
transcription, without imitation. He thinks in a peculiar 
train, and he thinks always as a man of genius. He looks 
round on nature and on life with the eye which nature 
bestows only on a poet—the eye that distinguishes in 
everything presented to its view whatever there is on 
which imagination can delight to be detained—and with a 
mind that at once comprehends the vast and attends to 
the minute.” “ It has been customary,” says Dr. Angus, 
“to compare Thomson and Cowper, and the comparison 
is not without interest. They agree in their admiration 
of nature, and largely in their tenderness of feeling, in 
humaneness of taste and emotion. Cowper has less en¬ 
thusiasm. Few passages of his are equal in power to some 
of Thomson’s, the Hymn of the Seasons for example, and 
the description of the Earthquake of Carthagena; but, in 
the harmony of his later verse, in ease, variety, and grace 
of style, Cowper is immeasurably superior.” 

After the publication of The Seasons, Thomson em¬ 
ployed himself in the composition of various tragedies 
and a poem on Liberty. But they are not equal to his 
other performances, and they are now but little read. One 
of these tragedies, Sophonisba, is remembered on account 
of a line that condemned the play: 


0 Sophonisba ! Sophonisba, O ! 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


237 


In 1 *748 was published the most brilliant effort of his 
genius, his Castle of Indolence, upon which he had been 
laboring for years. It is an allegorical poem in the style 
and manner of Spenser, and its charm lies in the descrip¬ 
tions, in the inexhaustible yet gentle flow of lulling images 
of calmness and repose. But the poet did not long survive 
its publication. A violent cold carried him off in August, 
1748, at the age of forty-eight. 

Thomson’s private character has its lights and shadows. 
He possessed great kindness of heart and urbanity of man¬ 
ners, and was-a stranger to those enmities and jealousies 
which too often disturb the happiness of literary men. He 
is said, however, to have been indolent in his habits. Per¬ 
sonal exertion was the last thing he would make use of 
either to promote his own interest or to serve others. 

The noblest and most affecting tribute to his memory, is 
from the pen of Collins, the celebrated poet, whose beau¬ 
tiful elegy commences as follows— 

“ In yonder * grave a Druid lies, 

Where slowly winds the stealing wave ; 

The year’s best sweets shall duteous rise, 

To deck its poet’s sylvan grave. 

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore, 

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest; 

•And oft suspend the dripping oar, 

To bid his gentle spirit rest! ” 

Winter. 

Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends, 

At first thin-wavering, till at last the flakes 
Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day 
With a continual flow. The cherished fields 
Put on their winter robe of purest white: 


* The scene is supposed to lie on the Thames, near Richmond, where 
Thomson was buried. 



238 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


’Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts 
Along the mazy current. Low the woods 
Bow their hoar head ; and ere the languid sun, 

Faint from the west, emits his evening ray ; 

Earth’s universal face, deep hid and chill, 

Is one wide dazzling waste that buries wide 
The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-ox 
Stands covered o’er with snow, and then demands 
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, 
Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around 
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon 
Which Providence assigns them. One alone, 

The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, 

Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, 

In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves 
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man 
His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first 
Against the window beats ; then brisk alights 
On the warm hearth ; then, hopping o’er the floor, 
Eyes all the smiling family askance. 

And pecks, and starts, and wondeys where he is : 

Till more familiar grown, the table-crumbs 
Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds 
Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, 
Though timorous of heart, and hard beset 
By death in various forms,—dark snares, and dogs, 
And more unpitying men,—the garden seeks, 

Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kine 
Eye the bleak heaven, and next the glistening earfh, 
With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dispersed, 
Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow. . 

As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce 
All winter drives along the darkened air, 

In his own loose revolving fields the swain 
Disastered stands ; sees other hills ascend 
Of unknown joyless brow, and other scenes 
Of horrid prospect shag the trackless plain ; 

Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid 
Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on 
From hill to dale, still more and more astray, 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, 

Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts of home 
Kush on his nerves and call their vigor forth 
In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul! 

What black despair, what horror, fills his heart! 

When for the dusky spot which fancy feigned, 

His tutted cottage rising through the snow, 

He meets the roughness of the middle waste, 

Far from the track and blessed abode of man ; 

While round him night resistless closes fast, 

And every tempest howling o’er his head 
Kenders the savage wilderness more wild. 

Then throng the busy shapes into his mind 
Of covered pits unfathomably deep, 

A dire descent! beyond the power of frost; 

Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge 

Smoothed up with snow; and what is land unknown, 

What water of the still unfrozen spring, 

In the loose marsh or solitary lake, 

Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. 

These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks 
Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, 

Thinking o’er all the bitterness of death, 

Mixed with the tender anguish nature shoots 
Through the wrung bosom of the dying man,— 

His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 

In vain for him the officious wife prepares 
The fire fair blazing and the vestment warm: 

In vain his little children, peeping out 
Into the mingling storm, demand their sire 
With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! 

Nor wife, nor children more shall he behold, 

Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve 
The deadly winter seizes, shuts up sense, 

And o’er his inmost vitals creeping cold, 

Lays him along the snows a stiffened corse, 

Stretched out and bleaching on the northern blast. 


240 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Tiie Castle of Indolence. 

In lowly dale, fast by a river’s side, 

With woody hill o’er hill encompassed round, 

A most enchanting wizard did abide, 

Than whom a fiend more fell’is nowhere found. 

It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; 

And there a season atween June and May. 

Half-pranked with spring, with summer half-imbrowned, 
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, 

No living wight could work, ne cared even for play. 

Was naught around but images of rest; 

Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between ; 

And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest, 

From poppies breathed ; and beds of pleasant green 
Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 

Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets played, 

And hurled every where their waters sheen ; 

That as they bickered through the sunny glade, 

Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. 

Joined to the prattle of the purling rills 
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 

And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills, 

And vacant shepherds piping in the dale : 

And now and then sweet Philomel would wail, 

Or stock-doves ’plain amid the forest deep, 

That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ; 

And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; 

Yet all these sounds yblent* inclined all to sleep. 

Full in the passage of the vale above, 

A sable, silent, solemn forest stood, 

Where naught but shadowy forms was seen to move, 

As Idlesse fancied in her dreaming mood : 

And up the hills, on either side, a wood 


* united. 





THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


241 


Of blackening pines, ay waving to and fro, 

Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood ; 

And where this valley winded out below, 

The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. 

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, 

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; 

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 

For ever flushing round a summer sky : 

There eke the soft delights, that witchingly 
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, 

And the calm pleasures,' always hovered nigh; 

But whate’er smacked of noyance or unrest 
Was far, far off* expelled from this delicious nest. 


Rule Britannia! 

When Britain first, at Heaven’s command, 
Arose from out the azure main, 

This was the charter of the land, 

And guardian angels sung this strain, 

“ Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 

Britons never will be slaves.” 

The nations, not so blest as thee, 

Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall; 

While thou shalt flourish great and free, 
The dread and envy of them all. 

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 

More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 

As the loud blast that tears the skies, 
Serves but to root thy native oak. 

Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame ; 

All their attempts to bend thee down 

Will but arouse thy generous flame, 

But work their woe, and thy renown. 

21 


242 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


To thee belongs the rural reign j 

Thy cities shall with commerce shine j 
All thine shall be the subject main ; 

And every shore it circles, thine. 

The Muses still with freedom found, 

Shall to thy happy coast repair : 

Blest isle ! with matchless beauty crowned, 

And manly hearts to guard the fair: 

“ Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 

Britons never will be slaves.” 

WILLIAM COLLINS, 1720-1756. 

William Collins holds a high rank among the lyrical 
poets of England, although on account of the small number 
and brevity of his poems he is classed among the minor 
poets. His history is short and melancholy. He was 
born at Chichester in 1720. His father, who was by trade 
a hatter, had sufficient means to send his son to Winchester 
School, and afterwards to Queen’s College, Oxford. 

Whilst at the University, he commenced his career of 
author by publishing in 1742 his Oriental Eclogues and 
his poetical Epistle to Sir Thomas Hanmer , On leaving 
the University, where he was noted for ‘ability and indo¬ 
lence,’ he proceeded to London, a literary adventurer, 
* with many projects in his head,’ if we are to believe Dr. 
Johnson, ‘ and little money in his pocket.’ Whilst in 
London, he contributed to the Gentleman's Magazine ; 
published proposals for a history of the revival of litera¬ 
ture ; and brought out, in 1746, his Odes, Descriptive and 
Allegorical. There is no doubt that they were written to 
procure him the means of present subsistence ; but their 
sale did not pay for the expense of printing them. His 
Ode on the Passions , his Ode to Fear, and his well-known 
Dirge in Cymbeline , were not duly appreciated until their 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 243 

author was beyond the reach of praise or censure. Dis¬ 
appointment, combined with an irregular life, broke his 
sensitive spirit, and brought on fits of mental depression 
and melancholy which terminated in insanity. 

The Ode on the Passions is exquisitely felicitous in 
conception, and the striking personifications with which it 
abounds, are worked out in the true lyrical spirit. The 
Ode to Evening consists of but thirteen short quatrains 
without rhyme ; but in its fifty-two lines we have the whole 
spirit and quintessence of its subject. 

He was only in his thirty-sixth year when he died, and 
nearly all his poetry had been written ten years before his 
death. The last six or seven years of his life were clouded 
with that depression of mind already alluded to, and which, 
in the words of Johnson, “enchains the faculties without 
destroying them, and leaves reason the knowledge of right 
without the power of pursuing it. . . . With the usual 
weakness of men so diseased, he eagerly snatched that 
temporary relief with which the table and the bottle flatter 
and seduce. But his health continually declined and he 
grew more and more burdensome to himself.” He was for 
some time confined in a house of lunatics, and afterwards 
retired to the care of his sister in Chichester, where death 
in 1T56 came to his relief. He deserves to be reckoned with 
Ben Jonson, Milton, Dryden, and Gray, among the first 
lyric writers in our literature. 

Ode on the Passions. 

When Music, heavenly maid ! was young, 

While yet in early Greece she sung, 

The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 

Thronged around her magic cell; 

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 

Possessed beyond the muse’s painting; 

By turns they felt the glowing wind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Till onco, ’tis said, when all were fired. 

Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, 

From the supporting myrtles round, 

They snatched her instruments of sound ; 

And as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 

Each, for madness ruled the hour, 

Would prove his own expressive power. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 

Amid the chords bewildered laid ; 

And hack recoiled, he knew not why, 

Even at the sound himself had made. 

Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire 
In lightnings owned his secret stings ; 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 

And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woful measures wan Despair, 

Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled ; 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 

’Twas sad by fits, by starts ? twas wild. 

But thou, 0 Hope ! with eyes so fair, 

What was thy delighted measure ? 

Still it whispered promised pleasure, 

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. 

Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 

She called on Echo still through all the song; 

And where her sweetest theme she chose, 

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 

And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair 
And longer had she sung, but with a frown 
Revenge impatient rose! 

He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, 
And, with a withering look, 

The war-denouncing trumpet took, 

And blew a blast so loud and dread, 

Were ne’er prophetic sounds so full of woe ; 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


245 


And ever and anon he beat 

The double drum with furious heat; 

And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, 
Dejected Pity at his side 
Her soul-subduing voice applied, 

Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, 

While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed, 

Sad proof of thy distressful state; 

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed, 

And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 

Pale Melancholy sat retired, 

And from her wild sequestered seat, 

In notes by distance made more sweet, 

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul; 

And clashing soft from rocks around, 

Bubbling runnels joined the sound : 

Through glades and glooms one mingled measure stole: 

Or o’er some haunted streams with fond dela 3 r , 

Bound a holy calm diffusing, 

Love of peace and lonely musing, 

In hollow murmurs died away. 

But oh ! how altered was its sprightly tone, 

When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 

Her bow across her shoulder flung, 

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, 

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, 

The hunter’s call, to Faun and Dryad known ; 

The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, 
Satyr and sylvan boys, were seen 
Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, 

And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. 


21 * 


246 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial: 

He, with viny crown advancing, 

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; 

But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, 

"Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. 

They would have thought, who heard the strain, 
They saw in Tempe’s vale her native maids, 
Amidst the festal sounding shades, 

To some unwearied minstrel dancing : 

While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round, 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound: 

And he, amidst his frolic play, 

As if he would the charming air repay, 

Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 

O Music! sphere-descended maid, 

Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom’s aid, 

Why, goddess ! why to us denied, 

Layest thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 

As in that loved Athenian bower, 

You learn an all-commanding power , 

Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared, 

Can well recall what then it heard. 

Where is thy native sijaaple heart, 

Devote to virtue, fancy, art ? 

Arise, as in that elder time, 

Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime ! 

Thy wonders in that godlike age 
Fill thy recording sister’s page; 

’T is said, and I believe the tale, 

Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 

Had more of strength, diviner rage, 

Than all which charms this laggard age ; 

Even all at once together found 
Cecilia’s mingled world of sound. 

Oh ! bid your vain endeavors cease, 

Eevive the just designs of Greece; 

Keturn in all thy simple state ; 

Confirm the tales her sons relate. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


24 ? 


Ode to Evening. 

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 

]VI ay hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest car, 

Like thy own solemn springs, 

Thy springs, and dying gales j 

O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun 
Sits in yon western tent, whoso cloudy skirts, 

With brede ethereal wove, 

O’erhang his wavy bed : 

Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed bat, 

With short shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing, 

Or where the beetle winds 
His small but sullen horn, 

As oft he rises, midst the twilight path, 

Against the pilgrim, borne in heedless hum: 

Now teach me, maid composed, 

To breathe some soften’d strain, 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit, 

As, musing slow, I hail 
Thy genial loved return I 

For when thy folding-star, arising, shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 
The fragrant hours, and elves 
Who slept in buds the day, 

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, 
And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still, 

The pensive pleasures sweet 
Prepare - thy shadowy car ; 

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, 

Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, 

Whose walls more awful nod 
By thy religious gleams. 


248 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut, 

That from the mountain’s side, 

Views wilds, and swelling floods, 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover’d spires, 

And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er all 
Thy dewy fingers draw 
The gradual dusky veil. 

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ! 
While Summer loves to sport 
Beneath thy lingering light: 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, 

Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, 
Affrights thy shrinking train, 

And rudely rends thy robes : 

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 
Thy gentlest influence own, 

And love thy favorite name ! 


EDWARD YOUNG, 1684-1765. 

Edward Young, author of Night Thoughts, was born in 
1684 at Upham, in Hampshire, where his father was rector, 
lie was educated at Winchester School, and afterwards 
obtained a fellowship at Oxford. In the course of his 
studies, he exercised his own judgment on all abstruse 
questions that suggested themselves to his mind, especially 
on religious subjects. Tindal, his examiner, used to say of 
him: “The other boys I can always answer, because I 
know whence they have their arguments, which I have read 
a hundred times ; but that fellow Young is always pes¬ 
tering me with something of his own.” His first attempt 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


249 


at Terse was an Epistle to Lord Landsdowne, After 
writing several minor pieces, he produced, in 1721, his 
tragedy The Revenge. It is written with all the elabora¬ 
tion of the French school, and contains many touches of 
meditative thought, such as rendered his later works 
popular. The Revenge still keeps the stage, and its hero 
Zanga stands preeminent for theatrical interest among the 
personages of modern tragedy. He next published, 
between the years 1725 and 1728, seven epistles, entitled 
the Love of Fame , which he qualifies as ‘the Universal 
Passion.’ They are keen, vigorous, manly satires in rhymed 
couplet, strongly recalling some of the finer peculiarities 
of Pope, whose style they resemble more than Young’s 
other productions. Yet as they touch only on the surface 
of life, and abound more in flashes of wit and in caricature 
than in grave exposure of vice and folly, their power is 
exhausted by a single perusal. 

Besides the tragedy of The Revenge , Young was the 
author of two others, Busiris and The Brothers. They 
all end in suicide. As a dramatic writer, with much poetic 
conception and strong feeling, he is exaggerated and 
bombastic. 

When upwards of fifty, he entered the church, wrote a 
panegyric on the king, and was made one of his majesty’s 
chaplains. Swift has said that ‘ the poet was compelled 
to torture his invention, flatter knaves, or lose his pension.’ 

To the sorrows and disappointments which embittered 
his domestic life, is to be attributed the poem on which 
rests his fame. This work, the Night Thoughts, is a series 
of solemn reflections on life, death, and immortality, 
divided into nine Books or Nights, each of which is inde¬ 
pendent of the rest, and pursues some train of thought in 
harmony with the poet’s supposed feelings at the time of 
composition. 


250 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


The merits of Young* have been variously criticised. 
Few, however, we are inclined to think, will dissent from 
the views set forth in the following able analysis of the 
poem: “ The style,” says Shaw, “is of a kind little capable 
of keeping alive those awful sentiments of wonder and 
sublimity which his genius is so powerful in evoking. In 
him the intellect had an undue preponderance over the 
imagination and the sensibility; and hardly does he raise 
before us some grand image of death, of power, of immor¬ 
tality, when he turns aside to seek after remote and fan¬ 
tastic allusions, which instantly destroy the potent charm. 
Few writers are so unequal as Young, or rather few writers 
of such powerful and acknowledged genius were ever so 

deficient in comparative, or critical taste. There 

are few poets whose works present a greater number of 
detached glittering apophthegms—none who is so little 
adapted to give continuous pleasure to a reader of culti¬ 
vated taste.” * Dr. Johnson has described his poem as 1 a 
wilderness of thought, in which the fertility of fancy 
scatters flowers of every hue and of every odor.’ Perhaps 
the best compliment ever paid to the Night Thoughts, is 
the fact that Edmund Burke committed to memory large 
portions of the poem. 

In his youth, Young was not free from the vice of dissi¬ 
pation ; and, in the maturity of his life, he stooped from 
the dignity of his sacred profession by courting with too 
great anxiety worldly dignities and applause. Of his 
private character in the closing years of his life, there are 
but few particulars recorded. He lived much in retire¬ 
ment, and is said to have been simple in his habits, agree¬ 
able in his manners, and strict in the performance of his 
religious duties. He was fond of walking in the church- 


* Outlines of Eng. Lit. 





THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


251 


yard, and indulging in serious meditation among the 
tombs. 

In 1762, when he was upwards of fourscore, he printed 
his poem of Resignation , in which a decay of his powers 
is manifested. Three years later, at an age which few 
attain, a period w*as put to the life of this distinguished 
poet. 


Night. 

Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne, 

In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 
Her leaden sceptre o’er a slumbering world. 
Silence, how dead ! and darkness, how profound I 
Nor eye, nor list’ning ear, an object finds; 
Creation sleeps. ’Tis as the general pulse 
Of life stood still, and nature made a pause; 

An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. 


The Advantages of Retirement. 

Blest be that hand divine, which gently laid 
My heart at rest beneath this humble shade ! 
The world’s a stately bark, on dangerous seas, 
With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril; 
Here, on a single plank, thrown safe ashore, 

I hear the tumult of the distant throng, 

As that of seas remote, or dying storms; 

And meditate on scenes more silent still; 
Pursue my themo^ and fight the fear of death. 
Here like a shepherd, gazing from his hut, 
Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff, 
Eager ambition’s fiery chase I see; 

I see the circling hunt of noisy men 

Burst law’s enclosure, leap the mounds of right, 

Pursuing and pursued, each other’s prej*; 

As wolves for rapine; as the fox for wiles • 

Till death, that mighty hunter, earths them all. 


252 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour ? 

■What though we wade in wealth, or soar in fame, 
Earth’s highest station ends in 11 here he lies,” 

And “ dust to dust ” concludes her noblest song. 

The Revolution of the Seasons. 

Look nature through, ’tis revolution all; 

All change, no death; day follows night, and night 
The dying day ; stars rise and set, and set and rise: 
Earth takes the example. See, the Summer gay, 
With her green chaplet and ambrosial flowers, 

Droops into pallid Autumn : Winter grey, 

Horrid with frost and turbulent with storms, 

Blows Autumn and his golden fruits away, 

Then melts into the Spring: soft Spring, with breath 
Favonian, from warm chambers of the south, 

Recalls the first. All, to reflourish, fades: 

As in a wheel, all sinks to reascend: 

Emblems of man, who passes, not expires. 


Man. 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
How complicate, how wonderful is man I 
How passing wonder He who made him such ! 
Who centred in our make such strange extremes, 
From different natures marvellously mixed, 
Connexion exquisite of distant worlds! 
Distinguished link in being’s endless chain! 
Midway from nothing to the Deity ! 

A beam ethereal, sullied and absorpt! 

Though sullied and dishonoured, still divine! 

Dim miniature of greatness absolute! 

An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust: 

Helpless immortal! insect infinite! 

A worm ! a god! I tremble at myself, 

And in myself am lost. At home, a stranger, 
Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, 
And wondering at her own. How reason reels! 


TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 253 

Oh what a miracle to man is man ! 

Triumphantly distressed! what joy ! what dread 1 
Alternately transported and alarmed! 

What can preserve my life I or what destroy ! 

An angel’s arm can’t snatch me from the grave; 

Legions of angels can’t confine me there. 

The Folly of a mere Worldly Spirit. 

Yet man, fool man ! here buries all his thoughts; 

Inters celestial hopes without one sigh. 

Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon, 

Here pinions all his wishes; winged by heaven 
To fly at infinite: and reach it there 
Where seraphs gather immortality, 

On life’s fair tree, fast by the throne of God. 

What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow 
In his full beam, and ripen for the just, 

Where momentary ages are no more I 

Where time, and pain, and chance, and death expire! 

And is it in the flight of threescore years 
To push eternity from human thought, 

And smother souls immortal in the dust ? 

A soul immortal, spending all her fires, 

Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness, 

Thrown into tumult, raptured or alarmed, 

At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, 

Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, 

To waft a feather, or to drown a fly. 


Thoughts on Time. 

The bell strikes one. We take no note of time 
But from its loss : to give it then a tongue 
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, 

I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, 

It is the knell of my departed hours. 

Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. 
It is the signal that demands despatch: 

22 


254 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


How much is to be done ? My hopes and fears 
Start up alarmed, and o’er life’s narrow verge 
Look down — on what ? A fathomless abyss. 

A dread eternity I how surely mine! 

And can eternity belong to me, 

Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour ? 

Youth is not rich in time; it may he poor ; 

Part with it as with money, sparing; pay 
No moment, hut in purchase of its worth ; 

And what it’s worth, ask death-beds ; they can tell. 
Part with it as with life, reluctant; big 
With holy hope of nobler time to come; 

Time higher aimed, still nearer the great mark 
Of men and angels, virtue more divine. 


THOMAS GRAY, 1716-1771. 

Thomas Gray, author of the Elegy written in a Country 
Churchyard , was born at Cornhill, London, in 1716. It 
was to the exertions of his mother that he was indebted 
for the opportunities of a liberal education, first at Eton 
School, and afterwards at Cambridge. Having accepted 
an invitation from a fellow-student, Horace Walpole, son 
of the prime minister, to accompany him in a tour through 
•France and Italy, he described the incidents of his journey 
in a series of letters, which for their elegance and classic 
style are considered as models of epistolary composition. 
Johnson, in his life of Gray, gives them the following 
commendation: “He that reads his epistolary narration, 
wishes that to travel and to tell his travels had been more 
of his employment; but it is by studying at home, that we 
must obtain the ability of travelling with intelligence and 
improvement.” 

His first public appearance as a poet was made in 1747, 
when he published his Ode on a distant prospect of Eton 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 255 

College. “ It is more mechanical and common-place than 
his Elegy; but it touches on certain strings about the 
heart, that vibrate in unison with it, to our latest breath. 
No one ever passes by Windsor’s ‘stately heights,’ or sees 
the distant spires of Eton College, without thinking of 
Gray.” * 

Four years afterwards, his Elegy in a Country Church¬ 
yard was written, and immediately became popular. The 
natural and touching strain of. thought, expressed with 
consummate taste, and in a charming metre, has imparted 
to this poem such a union of .impressiveness and grace as 
to render it a master-piece of elegiac composition. “ Had 
Gray written often thus,” says Dr. Johnson, “it had been 
vain to blame, and useless to praise him.” What, for 
instance, can exceed the exquisite beauty and finish of 
these well-known lines: 

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

His other works consist principally of his lyrical odes. 
The most admired are On Spring , To Adversity , The 
Progress of Poetry , and The Bard. The last two ap¬ 
peared together in 1757. Although arrayed in real ele¬ 
gance of taste, they are censured by some, on account of 
the artificial and unnatural character and over-elaboration 
of their style. Lord Byron has said that the corner-stone 
of his glory is his unrivalled Elegy; and that, without it, 
his odes would not be sufficient for his fame. 

He w r as a ripe scholar; his Latin poems are among the 
finest specimens of that kind of composition in our litera¬ 
ture. Metaphysics, morals, and politics, made a principal 


* Hazlitt’s Lectures on the English Poets. 



256 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


part of his study; voyages and travels of all sorts, were 
his favorite amusements. There is no character, however, 
without some imperfection; and the greatest defect in him 
was an affectation in delicacy, or rather effeminacy. “ He 
loved to assume the character of the fine gentleman—a 
mean and odious ambition in any one, but scarcely to be 
forgiven in a man of genius. He would shrug his shoulders 
and distort his voice into fastidious tones, and take upon 
himself the airs of what folly is pleased to call high 
company.” * 

In 1768, he obtained the professorship of Modern 
History in the University of Cambridge. It was in 1771, 
whilst at dinner in the College, that he was seized with an 
illness of which he died in a few days. According to his 
desire, he was buried by the side of his mother at Stoke. 

Elegy written in a Country Churchyard. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 

The lowing herds wind slowly o’er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

N ow fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 

The moping owl does to the moon complain 
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 

Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, 

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 


♦Sir E. Bridges—Traits in the literary character of Gray the poet. 




THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


25T 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 

No children run to lisp their sire’s return, 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their fuprow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke 4 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 

And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, 

Await like the inevitable hour :— 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 

If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise, 

‘Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

22 * 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


But knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll; 

Child Penury repressed their noble rage, 

And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Pull many a gem, of purest ray serene, 

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear : 

Pull many a flower is horn to blush unseen, 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood. 

The applause of listening senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation’s eyes, 

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined 

Porbade to -wade through slaughter to a throne, 

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind : 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 

To quench the blushes of ingenious shame, 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame. 

Par from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


259 


Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, 
The place of fame and elegy supply : 

And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness, a prey, 

This pleasing anxious being e’er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 

Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, 

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate ; 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 

“ Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

• 

There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 

And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 

Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; 

Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

One morn I missed him on the ’customed hill, 

Along the heath and near his favourite tree ; 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

The next, with dirges due, in sad array 

Slow through the church-way path wo saw him borne! 

Approach and read (for thou cast read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.” 


260 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 1728-1774. 

Oliver Goldsmith, an eminent poet and miscellaneous 
writer, was born in 1728 in the county of Longford, Ire¬ 
land. His father, a clergyman of the Established Church, 
sent him at an early period to Dublin College, and after¬ 
ward, with a view to the medical profession, to the Uni¬ 
versity of Edinburgh. At both of these institutions, the 
eccentricity and recklessness of his conduct involved Oliver 
and his friends in considerable difficulties. He was subse¬ 
quently removed to Leyden University, where he remained 
for a year without, however, making an effort to obtain a 
degree. From this place he started on a continental 
pedestrian tour, being provided, it is said, ‘ with a guinea 
in his pocket, one shirt to his back, and a flute in his hand;’ 
and he actually travelled on foot through Flanders, part 
of France, Germany, Switzerland, and Italj. After one 
year of wandering, lonely and in poverty, yet buoyed up 
by dreams of hope and fame, he reached London, early in 
1756. Many a hard struggle for a livelihood had he to 
encounter, until his versatile talents and ready pen attracted 
the notice of the London booksellers. He wrote articles 
for the Monthly Review, the British Magazine, the Critical 
Review, the Lady’s Magazine, and the Bee. In 1762, 
appeared his well-known work, The Citizen of the World , 
originally contributed to the Public Ledger in the form of 
letters supposed to be written by a Chinese philosopher 
resident in England. This work, which ranks among the 
most successful of his prose writings, was composed on the 
model of the Persian Letters (Lettres Persanes) by Mon¬ 
tesquieu, and contrives to give an abstracted and somewhat 
perplexing view of things, by opposing foreign preposses¬ 
sions to our own, and then stripping objects of their cus¬ 
tomary disguises. The first of his two memorable poems, 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


2C1 


The Traveller , appeared in 1764. It is a meditative and 
descriptive work, embodying the impressions of human life 
and society which he had felt in his travels and in his early 
struggles. It contains little that is very new or striking 
in the ideas or the imagery; but it is exquisitely versified, 
and in beauty of expression has never been surpassed. 
The Deserted Village , published in 1770, greatly enhanced 
his poetic fame. “ His chaste pathos,” to use the words of 
T. Campbell, “makes him an insinuating moralist, and 
throws a charm of Claude-like softness over his descrip¬ 
tions of homely objects that would seem only fit to be the 
subjects of Dutch painting. But his quiet enthusiasm 
leads the affections to humble things without a vulgar 
association; and he inspires us with a fondness to trace 
the simplest recollections of Auburn, till we count the fur¬ 
niture of its ale-house and listen to the ‘varnished clock 
that clicked behind the door.’” Goldsmith is also the 
author of two most amusing comedies, and of a much- 
admired domestic novel, The Vicar of Wakefield. In 
1763, he published a History of England , in letters from 
a nobleman to his son. Its popularity induced the author 
to compile a more extended history of England, and to 
prepare abridgments of Grecian and Roman history. 
These works have absolutely no authority as history; they 
were written merely as bookseller’s task-work, and yet from 
the purity of the style and the grace of composition they 
have had a most extensive sale. His History of Animated 
Nature is for the most part a condensation of Buffon’s 
Histoire Naturelle. 

The general characteristics of this distinguished and 
favorite author are thus described by Dr. Johnson: “A 
man of such variety of powers and such felicity of perfor¬ 
mance, that he always seemed to do best that which he 
was doing; a man who had the art of being minute without 


262 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


tediousness, and general without confusion; whose lan¬ 
guage was copious without exuberance, exact without 
constraint, and easy without weakness.” No writer of his 
time possessed more genuine humor, or was capable of 
more poignancy in marking the foibles of individuals. 
“ Though his mind,” says Macaulay, “ was scantily stored 
with materials, he used what materials he had in such a 
way as to produce a wonderful effect. There have been 
many greater writers ; but perhaps no writer was ever more 
uniformly agreeable. His style was always pure and easy, 
and on proper occasions pointed and energetic. His nar¬ 
ratives were always amusing; his descriptions always pic¬ 
turesque ; his humor rich and joyous, yet not without an 
occasional tinge of amiable sadness.” 

The faults of Goldsmith, though they must not escape 
censure, will always cause regret. He was vain, sensual, 
and frivolous. His manners were eccentric even to absur¬ 
dity. His improvidence, his fondness for games of chance, 
and his want of high moral and religious tone, are deeply 
to be deplored ; but that genuine and ever-flowing benevo¬ 
lence of heart, which few have surpassed, calls for our 
admiration and esteem. He was subject to depression of 
spirits; and, in Tit4, continual vexation of mind, arising 
perhaps from his involved circumstances, brought on a 
nervous fever of which he died in the forty-sixth year of 
his age. His remains were interred in the Temple burying- 
ground; but the spot was not marked by any inscription, 
and is now forgotten. A subscription was afterwards col¬ 
lected for the purpose of erecting a monument to his 
memory in Westminster Abbey. On the poet’s tomb a 
suitable Latin inscription, written by Dr. Johnson, contains 
this truthful and eloquent eulogium : 


‘Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit.’ 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


263 


Village Preacher. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden flower grows wild, 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 

The village preacher’s modest mansion rose. 

A man he was to all the country dear, 

And passing rich with forty pounds a-year ; 

Remote from towns, he ran his godly race, 

Nor e’er had changed, nor wished to change, his place; 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 

His house was known to all the vagrant train; 

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain. 

The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 

Sat by the fire, and talked the night away ; 

Wept o’er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 

Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 

His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 

And even his failings leaned to virtue’s side ; 

But, in his duty prompt at every call, 

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; 

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 

To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies, 

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 

And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 

The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 


264 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 

His looks adorned the venerable place ; 

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway ; 

And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 

The service past, around the pious man, 

With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 

Even children followed with endearing wile, 

And plucked his gown, to share the good man’s smile 
His ready smile a parent’s warmth expressed, 

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm ; 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Village Schoolmaster. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, 

There in his nois} r mansion skilled to rule, 

The village master taught his little school; 

A man severe he was, and stern to view; 

I knew him well, and every truant knew. 

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day’s disasters in his morning’s face ; 

Eull well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 

Full well the busy whisper circling round, 

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned : 

Yet he was kind ; or, if severe in aught, 

The love he bore to learning was in fault; 

The village all declared how much ho knew; 

’Twas certain he could write and cipher too ; 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage; 
And even the story ran that he could gauge ; 

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 

For even though vanquished, he could argue still; 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


265 


“While words of learned length, and thundering sound, 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame : the very spot 
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. 

The Vanity of Popular Fame. 

From The Bee , No. VI. 

An alehouse-keeper, near Islington, who had long lived at the 
sign of the * French King,’ upon the commencement of the last 
war with France, pulled down his old sign, and put up that of 
the Queen of Hungary. Under the influence of her red face and 
golden sceptre, he continued to sell ale till she was no longer the 
favorite of his customers; he changed her, therefore, some time 
ago for the King of Prussia, who may probably be changed, in 
turn, for the next great man that shall be set up for vulgar 
admiration. 

Our publican in this imitates the great exactly, who deal out 
their figures, one after the other, to the gazing crowd. When we 
have sufficiently wondered at one, that is taken in, and another 
exhibited in its room, which seldom’holds its station long, for 
the mob are ever pleased with variety. 

I must own I have an indifferent opinion of the vulgar, that I 
am ever led to suspect that merit which raises their shout; at 
least I am certain to find those great, and sometimes good men, 
who find satisfaction in such acclamations, made worse by it; and 
history has too frequently taught me, that the head which has 
grown this day giddy with the roar of the million, has the very 
next been fixed upon a pole. 

Popular glory is a perfect coquet; her lovers must toil, feci 
every inquietude, indulge every caprice, and perhaps at last be 
jilted into the bargain. True glory, on the other hand, resembles 
a woman of sense: her admirers must play no tricks; they feel 
no great anxiety, for they are sure in the end of being rewarded 
in proportion to their merit. . . . 

I know not how to turn so trite a subject out of the beaten road 
of commonplace, except by illustrating it, rather by the assistance 

23 


266 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


of my memory than judgment j and instead of making reflec¬ 
tions, by telling a story. 

A Chinese, who long had studied the works of Confucius, who 
knew the characters of fourteen thousand words, and could read 
a great part of every book that came in his way, once took it into 
his head to travel into Europe, and observe the customs of a 
people whom he thought not very much inferior even to his own 
countrymen, in the art of refining upon every pleasure. Upon 
his arrival at Amsterdam, his passion for letters naturally led him 
to a bookseller’s shop, and, as he could speak a little Dutch, he 
civilly asked the bookseller for the works of the immortal Xixofou. 
The bookseller assured him he had never heard of the book men¬ 
tioned before. ‘ What! have you never heard of that immortal 
poet V returned the other much surprised; ‘ that light of the 
eyes, that favorite of kings, that rose of perfection ! 1 suppose 

you know nothing of the immortal Fipsihihi, second cousin to 
the moon?’ ‘Nothing at all, indeed, sir,’ returned the other. 
‘Alas! ’ cries our traveller, ‘ to what purpose, then, has one of 
these fasted to death, and the other offered himself up as a sacrifice 
to the Tartar enemy, to gain a renown which has never travelled 
beyond the precincts of China? ’ 

There is scarce a village in Europe, and not one university, that 
is not thus furnished with its little great men. . . . 


DAVID HUME, 1711-1776. 

David Hume, the distinguished Scotch historian, was 
born in Edinburgh, in 1711. He was destined by his 
family for the law; but his passion for literature was so 
strong, that he could not confine himself to professional 
studies; and, as he observes in his memoirs, while his 
family fancied him to be poring over Voet and Vinnius, 
he was occupied with Cicero and Virgil. The greater part 
of his life was passed abroad, chiefly in France, and his 
long residence in this country contributed to develop in 
him a tendency to those barren and abstract investigations 
th%t characterized the literature of that period. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


267 


His first work, A Treatise on Human Nature , was 
unsuccessful; but, not discouraged at this, he published, 
five years'later, in 1741, his Essays Moral and Political, 
and, in 1748, his Philosophical Essays concerning the 
Human Understanding, containing much of the substance, 
though considerably altered, of an unsuccessful treatise 
published fourteen years before. In these philosophical 
works, Hume is one of the most dangerous of infidel 
writers. His subtle metaphysics tends to undermine 
religion. He affects much calmness and impartiality, but 
it is easy to perceive that his sang-froid conceals a great 
deal of malice. He boldly aims to spread the cloud of 
scepticism over the existence of God, free will, and the 
immortality of the soul; and he justifies suicide. Accord¬ 
ing to him, virtue consists only in the general approbation ; 
and, emboldened by his discovery, he gives the name of 
virtue to eloquence, taste, and even force. “ In fact, the 
works of Hume and Gibbon,” says Count de Maistre, “ are 
neither more nor less than, in general, a conspiracy against 
Christianity and Christian piety.” * 

In 1752 appeared his Political Discourses. They are 
ranked amongst the best models we have of the reasoning 
that belongs to subjects of this nature. 

The first volume of his History of Great Britain, con¬ 
taining the reigns of James I. and Charles I., was pub¬ 
lished in 1754; and, in proportion as the succeeding 
volumes appeared, the public admiration increased, and 
the History soon attained a high rank as a literary per¬ 
formance. This success encouraged him to complete his 
work from the earliest period, a task which he accomplished 
in two additional volumes, in 1761. The History as a 
whole is of*no high authority. From first to last it is 


* Leltres dun gentilhomme Eussc sur l 1 Inquisition Espagnole, Lettre V. 



268 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


evidently the work of an essayist and 1 philosopher,’ who 
regarded truth as subordinate to effect, and lQoked to his 
own ends, personal and philosophical. To apologize for 
the misconduct of the Stuarts, to write down the British 
Constitution, as well as the Christian religion, or at least 
so much of both as were not then admired by the higher 
order of the state, were among the objects he sought to 
attain. “ His misrepresentations are now so glaring,” says 
the North American Review, “that the very party he 
intended to aid, has been obliged to turn against him in 
self-defence.”* “ If we were obliged,” says Allibone, “ to 
compress into the limits of a single sentence, the eharac- 
isties of Hume’s History of England, we suppose that the 
following could be considered an impartial statement : 
Beauty of style, carelessness of facts, and intolerance of 
spirit. Hume was too fastidious to be inelegant, too indo¬ 
lent to be accurate, too bigoted to be impartial.” But 
Hume will always be read in spite of his carelessness, in 
spite of his errors. Nine readers seek amusement, where 
one seeks instruction. 

The literary distinction which Hume had acquired, pro¬ 
cured for him honors and public appointments. In 1769, 
he retired from public life, and, after living many years in 
lettered ease, he died in 1776, in Edinburgh, his native city. 
His death has been represented by his friends as tranquil 
and calm, and he himself describing his illness only four 
months before, says: “Notwithstanding the great decline 
of my person, I have never suffered a moment’s abatement 
of my spirits.” But, if the testimony of Franklin, who 
was present during his last moments, is to be admitted, 
nothing could give stronger evidence of the existence of a 
God, of the eternity of torments, of the worm <3f conscience, 


* Vol. 20. 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


269 


and of tlie blackest despair, than the very countenance of 
this unhappy man. Franklin endeavored to speak of God. 
Hume requested him to say no more ; he had grown old 
in, and so long propagated, his wretched principles that it 
was now too late. Franklin said something relative to the 
mercy of God and His readiness to receive the returning 
criminal—but in vain ; even the mention of mercy startled 
the unhappy man, and made him appear to feel unutterable 
woe.* 

Unjust Persecution of the Jesuits in England under 
Charles II. 

From The History of England , vol. IV., chap. LXVIII. 

The King was willing to try every means which gave a pros¬ 
pect of more compliance in his subjects; and in case of failure, 
the blame, he hoped, would lie on those whose obstinacy forced 
him to extremities. 

Put even during the recess of parliament, there was no inter¬ 
ruption in the prosecution of the Catholics accused of the plot; 
the King found himself obliged to give way to this popular fury. 
‘Whitebread, provincial of the Jesuits, Fenwic, Gavan, Turner, 
and Harcourt, all of them of the same order, were first brought to 
their trial. Besides Oates and Bedloe, Dugdall, a new witness, 
appeared against the prisoners. This man had been steward to 
Lord Aston, and, though poor, possessed a character somewhat 
more reputable than the other two; but his account of the in¬ 
tended massacres and assassinations, was equally monstrous and 
incredible. He even asserted that two hundred thousand papists 
in England were ready to take arms. The prisoners proved by 
sixteen witnesses, from St. Omer’s students, and most of them 
young men of family, that Oates was in that seminary at the 
time when he swore that he was in London ; but, as they were 
Catholics, and disciples of the Jesuits, their testimony with the 
judges and jury were totally disregarded. Even the reception 
which they met with in court, was full of outrage and mockery. 


28 * 


* Gandolphy’s Defence of the Ancient Faith. 



270 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


One of them saying that Oates always continued at St. Omer’s, if 
he could believe his senses: ‘ You papists,’ said the Chief Justice, 

‘ are taught not to believe your senses.’ It must be confessed that 
Oates, in opposition to the students of St. Omer’s, found means 
to bring evidence of his having been at that time in London ; 
but this evidence, though it had, at that time, the appearance of 
some solidity, was afterwards discovered, when Oates himself was 
tried for perjury, to be altogether deceitful. In order further to 
discredit that witness, the Jesuits proved by undoubted testimony 
that he had perjured himself in Father Ireland’s trial, whom 
they showed to have been in Staffordshire at the very time when 
Oates swore that he was committing treason in London. But all 
these pleas availed them nothing, against the general prejudices. 
They received sentence of death ; some were executed, persisting 
to their last breath in the most solemn, earnest, and deliberate, 
though disregarded, protestation of their innocence. 


Character of Alfred the Great. 

The merit of this prince, both in private and public life, may, 
with advantage, be set in opposition to that of any monarch or 
citizen, which the annals of anj^- age or any nation can present 
to us. He seems, indeed, to be the complete model of that perfect 
character, which, under the denomination of a sage or wise man, 
the philosophers have been fond of delineating, rather as a fiction 
of their imagination, than in hopes of ever seeing it reduced to 
practice; so happily were all his virtues tempered together; so 
justly were they blended ; and so powerfully did each prevent 
the other from exceeding its proper bounds. 

He knew how to conciliate the most enterprising spirit with 
the coolest moderation ; the most obstinate perseverance, with 
the easiest flexibility ; the most severe justice, with the greatest 
lenity; the greatest rigor in command, with the greatest affa¬ 
bility of deportment; the highest capacity and inclination for 
science, with the most shining talents for action. 

Nature also, as if desirous that so bright a production of her 
skill should be set in the fairest light, had bestowed on him all 
bodily accomplishments : vigor of limbs, dignity of shape and 
air, and a pleasant, engaging, and open countenance, By living 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 271 

in that barbarous age, he was deprived of historians worthy to 
transmit his fame to posterity ; and we wish to see him delineated 
in more lively colors, and with more particular strokes, that we 
might at least perceive some of those small specks and blemishes, 
from which, as a man, it was impossible he should be entirely 
exempted. 

SAMUEL JOHNSON, 1709-1784. 

One of the most remarkable among the distinguished 
English writers of the eighteenth century, was Dr. Samuel 
Johnson. IJq was a man of multifarious knowledge, 
sagacity, and moral intrepidity. With great virtues, he 
possessed strong prejudices; and, though some of the 
higher qualities of genius eluded his grasp and observation, 
the withering scorn and invective with which he assailed 
all affected sentimentalism, immorality, and licentiousness, 
obtained for him great ascendency and introduced a more 
healthful atmosphere into the crowded walks of English 
literature. Johnson was born at Lichfield, in 1709. Com¬ 
pelled by poverty to leave his education at Oxford incom¬ 
plete, he consented to act as usher in a grammar school; 
and, after unsuccessfully attempting to conduct a school of 
his own, travelled to London, in 1737, in company with 
his friend and former pupil, David Garrick. He now 
entered upon a new career of author by profession, con¬ 
tributing essays, reviews, and other articles, to the Gentle¬ 
man’s Magazine. In 1738 appeared his admirable satire 
entitled London , a revival of the third satire of Juvenal, 
in which the topics of the Roman poet are applied with 
surprising freedom, animation, and felicity of language, to 
English manners and the corruptions of Modern London 
society. The satire was followed by his Life of Savage; 
and, in 1749, another admired imitation of Juvenal’s tenth 
satire was published, entitled The Vanity of Human 
Wishes. In the same year, his tragedy of Irene , written 


2*72 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


before he came to London, was produced at the Drury 
Lane Theatre. As it was destitute of simplicity and 
pathos, it was performed with but moderate applause, and 
has never since been revived. His Prologue on the 
Opening of the Drury Lane Theatre, is one of the finest 
in our language. Between the years 1750 and 1752, 
Johnson was engaged in the composition of a journal—or 
series of periodical essays—entitled the Pambler , written 
after the manner of The Spectator, but not so popular, on 
account of its too uniformly didactic and declamatory 
style. The same remarks will apply to The Idler, a pub¬ 
lication on a similar plan, issued a few years later. The 
edition of Shakspeare, which he published in 1768, contains 
little that is valuable in the way of annotation ; but has a 
powerful and masterly preface. But the work for which 
he is principally celebrated, and on which he had labored 
assiduously during seven years, is his Dictionary of the 
English Language, published in 1755. It ranks among 
our standard works, and is a noble monument of individual 
learning, energy, and perseverance. The classical quota¬ 
tions which illustrate and exemplify the different significa¬ 
tions of words, not only are complete and interesting in 
themselves, but moreover contain striking passages of 
poetry, pithy remarks, or historical facts. However the 
want of philological research, and other defects rendered 
apparent by more recent investigations, have somewhat 
lessened its original reputation. In 1759 appeared the 
beautiful Oriental tale entitled Easselas, which he wrote 
in the nights of one week, to defray the expenses of his 
mother’s funeral. As a representation of Eastern manners, 
it has no claim to our admiration ; but, as a series of moral 
essays on a variety of subjects, and full of sense, acuteness, 
and originality of thought, it merits more than a single 
perusal. Easselas ranks first in time among what are 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


2*13 


termed the moral novels. Johnson himself is reported to 
have said, that if he had seen the Candide of Yoltaire, he 
should not have written Passelas, as the two works go 
over the same ground. They both picture a world full of 
misery and sin. But Yoltaire uses the fact to excite a 
sneer at religion and Providence; Johnson, on the con¬ 
trary, as an argument for our faith in a coming immortality. 

His Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland was 
published in 1775. It makes no pretensions to scientific 
discovery; but it is an entertaining and finely written 
work. Scotland owes to his complaints of the absence of 
trees some of her finest forests. 

Johnson’s last literary undertaking, and his best prose 
work, is his Lives of the Poets. It did not appear until 
1781, but it shows all the vigor of thought that distin¬ 
guishes his earlier writings, with much more freedom of 
style and richness of illustration than any of them. With 
an occasional exhibition of political bias and strong preju¬ 
dices, these Lives form a valuable addition to English 
biography and criticism. The work itself, however, was a 
bookseller’s speculation, and the choice of lives was deter¬ 
mined by the likelihood of popularity. Mere rhymesters 
have found a place in his gallery, and some of the greatest 
names in our literature have been omitted. 

The great influence which Johnson exercised, was due 
partly to his character, and partly to his mental power and 
his style. His manly appearance, his stern integrity, his 
love of argument and of society, his repartee and brow¬ 
beating, all helped to make him a man of mark in his time. 
But his mind is scarcely to be seen in its full light, if we do 
not add to the productions of his own pen the record of 
his colloquial wit and eloquence, and the complete portrai¬ 
ture, both inward and outward, preserved in the pages of 
his biographer Boswell. 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


274 

Ill the capacity of author, it cannot be said that the 
world is indebted to him for many new truths ; but he has 
given novel and often forcible and elegant expression to 
some old ones. No writer delivers moral maxims and 
dictatorial sentences with greater force, or lays down defi¬ 
nitions with more grave precision. His critical acumen, 
setting aside personal and political prejudices, was likewise 
very great; but he is utterly averse to the easy and 
familiar, both in style and sentiment. His style formed an 
era in English composition. Its balanced pomp and anti¬ 
thetical clauses had with many an irresistible charm. 
However, the admiration of its exuberance of words of 
Latin' etymology, and its sonorous rotundity of phrase, 
after having betrayed some writers into an injudicious 
imitation, has at length subsided ; and the share of influ¬ 
ence which remains, has certainly improved the general 
language. A pleasing comparison has been drawn between 
him and the author of the Spectator. It is as follows: 
“Addison lends grace and ornament to truth; Johnson 
gives it force and energy. Addison makes virtue amiable; 
Johnson represents it as an awful duty. Addison insin¬ 
uates himself with an air of modesty; Johnson commands 
like a dictator, but a dictator in his splendid robes, not 
laboring at the plough. Johnson is always profound, and 
of course gives the fatigue of thinking. Addison charms 
while he instructs; and writing, as he always does, a pure, 
elegant, and idiomatic style, he may be pronounced the 
safer model for imitation.” 

As a man, Johnson possessed some admirable traits of 
character. His purse and his house were ever open to the 
indigent. His heart was tender to those who wanted 
relief, and his soul susceptible of gratitude and every kind 
impression. His veracity from the most trivial to the most 
solemn occasions, was strict even to severity. He scorned 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 275 

to embellish a story with fictitious circumstances; for ‘ what 
is not a representation of reality,’ he used to say, ‘ is not 
worthy of our attention.’ He had a roughness ill his 
manner which subdued the bold and terrified the meek—* 
but it was only in his manner; for no man was more loved 
than Johnson by those that knew him. 

From the period when The Lives of the Poets were 
published, in 1781, his constitution began to decline, and 
a paralytic stroke, which affected his speech, was followed 
by an attack of dropsy. He had for many years been 
haunted by a morbid fear of death; but, when at length 
the dreaded moment approached, the dark cloud passed 
away from his mind. “ His temper,” to use the language 
of Macaulay, “became unusually patient and gentle; he 
ceased to think with terror of death and of that which lies 
beyond death, and he spoke much of the mercy of God 
and of the propitiation of Christ. In this serene frame of 
mind he died on the 13th of December, 1784. 

He was laid a week later in Westminster Abbey, among 
the eminent men of whom he had been the historian, Cow¬ 
ley and Denham,* Dryden and Congreve, f Gay, Prior, 
and Addison. 

The Excellence oe Shakseeare. 

.... Shakspeare is, above all writers, at least above all mod¬ 
ern writers, the poet of nature—the poet that holds up to his 
readers a faithful mirror of manners and of life. His characters 
are not modified by the customs of particular places, unpractised 
by the rest of the world; by the peculiarities of studies or pro- 


*Sir John Denham, author of Cooper's Hill, first published in 1G43. The 
poem is partly descriptive, partly philosophical. The scene is laid on an 
eminence near Windsor. Pope’s epithet, ‘majestic Denham,' Hailam thinks 
too flattering. 

f William Congreve, a distinguished dramatist, (d. 1729) has left five plays, 
of which one, The Mournivg Bride, is a tragedy. Their licentiousness has 
banished them irom the stages. Congreve was the intimate friend of Dry¬ 
den, and was appointed his literary executor. 



BRITISH LITERATURE. 


276 

fessions, which can operate upon hut small numbers; or by the 
accidents of transient fashions or temporary opinions; they are 
the genuine progeny of common humanity, such as the world will 
always supply and observation will always find. His persons act 
and spealc by the influence of those general passions and prin¬ 
ciples by which all minds are agitated, and the whole system of 
life is continued in motion. In the writings of other poets, a 
character is too often an individual ; in those of Shakspeare it is 
commonly a species. 

It is from this wide extension of design that so much instruc¬ 
tion is derived. It is this which fills the plays of Shakspeare 
with practical axioms and domestic wisdom. It was said of 
Euripides that every verse was a precept; and it may be said of 
Shakspeare that from his works may he collected a system of 
civil and economical prudence ; yet his real power is not shown 
in the splendor of particular passages, but by the progress of 
his fable and the tenor of his dialogue; and he that tries to re¬ 
commend him by select quotations, will succeed like the pedant 
in Hierocles, who when he offered his house to sale, carried a 
brick in his pocket as a specimen. 


Parallel between P^pk and Dryden. 

Pope professed to have learned his poetry from Dry den, whom, 
whenever an opportunity was presented, he praised through his 
whole life with unvaried liberality; and perhaps his character 
may receive some illustration, if he be compared with his mas¬ 
ter. 

In acquired knowledge, the superiority must be allowed to 
Drvden, whose education was more scholastic, and who, before 
he became an author, had been allowed more time for study, 
with better means of information. His mind has a larger range, 
and he collects his images and illustrations from a more exten¬ 
sive circumference of science. Dryden knew more of man in his 
general nature, and Pope in his local manners. The notions of 
JDryden were formed by comprehensive speculation; those of 
Pope by minute attention. There is more dignity in the know¬ 
ledge of Dryden, and more certainty in that of Pope. 

Poetry was not the sole praise of either, for both excelled like¬ 
wise in prose; but Pope did not borrow his prose from his pred- 




TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


277 

ecessor. Tho style of Dryden is capricious and varied ; that of 
Pope is cautious and uniform. Dryden obeys the motions of his 
own mind ; Pope constrains his mind to his own rules of compo¬ 
sition. Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid; Pope is 
always smooth, uniform, and gentle. Dryden’s page is a natural 
field, rising into inequalities, and diversified by the varied exu¬ 
berance of abundant vegetation ; Pope’s is a velvet lawn, shaven 
by the scythe and levelled by the roller. 

Of genius—that power which constitutes a poet; that quality 
without which judgment is cold, and knowledge is inert; that 
energy which collects, combines, amplifies, and animates—the 
superiority must, with some hesitation, be allowed to Dryden. 
It is not to be inferred that of this poetical vigor Pope had only 
a little, because Dryden had more ; for every other writer since 
Milton must give place to Pope; and even of Dryden it must be 
said, that if he has brighter paragraphs he has not better poems. 
Dryden’s performances were always hasty, either excited by some 
external occasion, or extorted by domestic necessity; he composed 
without consideration, and published without correction. "What 
his mind could supply at call, or gather in one excursion, was 
all that he sought and all that he gave. The dilatory caution 
of Pope enabled him to condense his sentiments, to multiply his 
images, and to accumulate all that study might produce or chance 
might supply. If the flights of Dryden therefore are higher, 
Pope continues longer on the wing. If of Dryden’s fire the blaze 
is brighter, of Pope’s the heat is more regular and constant. 
Dryden often surpasses expectation, and Pope never falls below 
it. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment, and Pope with 
perpetual delight. 

Prologue on the Opening of Drury Lane Theatre. 

'When Learning’s triumph o’er her barbarous foes, 

First reared the stage, immortal Shakspeare rose; 

Each change of many-colour’d life he drew, 

Exhausted worlds and then imagined new. . . . 

Then Jonson came, instructed from the school 
To please on method and invent by rule; . . . . 

Cold approbation gave the lingering bays 

For those who durst not censure, scarce could praise : . . . 

24 




278 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame, 

Nor wished for Jonson’s art or Shakspeare’s flame s 
Themselves they studied, as they felt they writ: 

Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit. . . . 

The drama’s laws the drama’s patrons give, 

For we that live to please must please to live. 

AVILLIAM ROBEKTSON, 1721-1793. 

William Robertson, another celebrated Scotch historian, 
the contemporary and friend of Hume, was born at Borth- 
wick, Scotland. He was distinguished for his eloquence as 
a Presbyterian preacher, and he rose to be principal of the 
University of Edinburgh. However, he cannot be said to 
have acquired great fame until the appearance, in 1759, of 
his History of Scotland during the reigns of Mary and 
James VI . This work, which reached its fourteenth 
edition before his death, encouraged him to publish in 
1769 his History of the Reign of Charles V, and, eight 
years afterwards, The History of America. As a histo¬ 
rian, he is admired for distinctness of narrative, for skilful 
and luminous arrangement, and an elevated tone of feeling; 
yet, we cannot disguise from ourselves an unpleasant 
impression that Robertson does not place himself, and con¬ 
sequently the reader, among the persons and events which 
he describes. In the History of America, for example, 
the author seems to have taken his materials at second 
hand, preferring to obtain them filtered through the medium 
of previous compilation, as if afraid of admitting the pic¬ 
turesque details of old chroniclers and contemporary nar¬ 
rators. In evoking past ages from the tomb, it is not the 
bones, but the flesh and blood of life that we would behold ; 
not a spectre, but 

‘ Our fathers in their habit as they lived.’ * 


* See Shaw's Outlines of Eng. Lit. 




THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


279 

11 Robertson’s style,” says F. Schlegel, “is most attrac¬ 
tive: his language select, and, though ornate, yet lucid 
and unaffected. His weak side is that which has regard 
to research and import, certainly the most important of all 
historical qualities. It is now universally admitted even in 
England, that he is unreliable, superficial, and often full of 
errors.” 

His latest work appeared in 1791 under the title of a 
Historical Disquisition concerning the knowledge which 
the Ancients had of India, &c . 

Robertson died in 1793. 

9 t 

Columbus Discovering America. 

The presages of discovering land were now so numerous and 
promising, that he deemed them infallible. For some days the 
sounding line reached the bottom, and the soil which it brought 
up indicated land to be at no great distance. The flocks of birds 
increased, and were composed not only of sea-fowl, but of such 
land-birds as could not be supposed to fly far from the shore. 
The crew of the Pinta observed a cane floating, which seemed to 
have been newly cut, and likewise a piece of timber artificially 
carved. The sailors aboard the Nigna took up the branch of a 
tree with red berries perfectly fresh. The clouds around the set¬ 
ting sun assumed a new appearance ; the air was more mild and 
warm, and during night the wind became unequal and variable. 
From all these symptoms Columbus was so confident of being near 
land, that on the evening of the eleventh of October, after public 
prayers for success, he ordered the sails to be furled, and the ships 
to lie to, keeping strict watch lest they should be driven ashore in 
the night. During this interval of suspense and expectation, no 
man shut his eyes; all kept upon deck, gazing intently towards 
that quarter where they expected to discover the land, which had 
so long been the object of their wishes. 

About two hours before midnight, Columbus, standing on the 
forecastle, observed a light at a distance, and privately pointed it 
out to Pedro Guttierez, a page of the queen’s wardrobe. Guttierez 
perceived it, and calling to Salcedo, comptroller of the fleet, all 
three saw it in motion, as if it w r crc carried from place to place. 


280 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


A little after midnight, the joyful sound of land! land l was heard 
from the Pinta, which kept always ahead of the other ships. But 
having been so often discovered by fallacious appearances, every 
man was now become slow of belief, and waited in all the anguish 
of uncertainty and impatience for the return of day. As soon as 
morning dawned, all doubts and fears were dispelled. Prom every 
ship an island was seen about two leagues to the north, whose flat 
and verdant fields, well stored with wood, and watered with many 
rivulets, presented the aspect of a delightful country. The crew 
of the Pinta instantly began the Tc Deum , as a hymn of thanks¬ 
giving to God, and were joined by those of the other ships, with 
tears of joy and transports of congratulation. This otfice of grati¬ 
tude to Heaven was followed by an act of justice to their com¬ 
mander. They threw themselves at the feet of Columbus, with 
feelings of self-condemnation, mingled with reverence. They im¬ 
plored him to pardon their ignorance, incredulity, and insolence, 
which had created him so much unnecessary disquiet, and had so 
often obstructed the prosecution of his well-concerted plan ; and 
passing, in the warmth of their admiration, from one extreme to 
another, they now pronounced the man whom they had so lately 
reviled and threatened, to be a person inspired by Heaven with 
sagacity and fortitude more than human, in order to accomplish 
a design so far beyond the ideas and conception of all former ages. 

As soon as the sun arose, all their boats were manned and 
armed. They rowed towards the island with their colors dis¬ 
played, with warlike music, and other martial pomp. As they 
approached the coast, they saw it covered with a multitude of 
people, whom the novelty of the spectacle had drawn together, 
whose attitudes and gestures expressed wonder and astonishment 
at the strange objects which presented themselves to their view. 
Columbus was the first European who set foot on the new world 
which he had discovered. He landed in a rich dress, and with a 
naked sword in his hand. His men followed, and, kneeling down, 
they all kissed the ground which they had so long desired to see. 
They next erected a crucifix, and, prostrating themselves before it, 
returned thanks to God for conducting their voyage to such a 
happy issue. They then took solemn possession of the country 
for the crown of Castile and Leon, with all the formalities which 
the Portuguese were accustomed to observe in acts of this kind in 
their new discoveries. 


TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


281 


EDWARD GIBBON, 1737-1794. 

Edward Gibbon, the learned author of the History of 
the Decline and Fall of the JRoman Empire, was born at 
Putney, near London, in 1737. He was the eldest and 
only survivor of five brothers and a sister, was admitted at 
Westminster School in 1749, and three years later was 
matriculated as a gentleman-commoner * of Magdalen 
College, Oxford. At the early age of sixteen, he wa3 led 
by the perusal of the works of Bossuet and Parsons to 
abjure Protestantism, and embrace the Roman Catholic 
faith. His father, anxious to counteract the religious con¬ 
victions of his son, sent him to reside with a Calvinistic. 
minister in Switzerland, named Pavillard, who ultimately 
prevailed upon his pupil to return to Protestantism. In 
this second change, he became a ‘ philosopher,’ as the term 
was then used. “All religions,” he tells us, “ were con¬ 
sidered by the Roman people equally true, by the magis¬ 
trate equally useful, by the philosophers equally false,” and 
this seems to have been his own creed: his infidelity takes 
the form of philosophical contempt. After an absence of 
nearly five years, he returned to England; and in 1761 
appeared his Essai sur Vetude de la lilleralure, com¬ 
mended by foreign critics, but scarcely noticed at home. 

From the year 1768, Gibbon devoted himself with zealous 
industry to the preparation of his great work: ‘the labor 
of six quartoes and twenty years’; and in 1776 gave the 
first volume to the world. But, though the historian was 
warmly commended, the assailant of Christianity did not 


* Most of the Colleges in Oxford and Cambridge have, besides their depen¬ 
dent members, that is, those who are supported from th£ college funds, 
independent members, who live at their own expense, but are subject to 
most of the college laws: they are called, according to their rank and the 
sum they pay for board, noblemen, fellow-commoners, and commoners. 

24 * 



282 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


escape strong and merited rebuke. Gibbon’s original 
purpose was to review the state and revolutions of the 
Roman city, from the twelfth to the sixteenth century. 
But the plan was greatly extended, and now his history 
commences with the reign of Trajan, (a. d. 98,) and ends 
with the fall of the Eastern Empire in 1453 : three supple¬ 
mental chapters being devoted to his original theme. 

The quality in this work that first strikes an intelligent 
reader, is the extent and variety of its learning, and the 
skill with which the author uses it. He paints scenery and 
manners with all the animation of a native or of an eye¬ 
witness, and has identified himself with every thing he 
describes, except religion. He nowhere avows his dis¬ 
belief; but he attacks the Christian faith in the way which 
Byron has so justly described : 

1 Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer.’ 

Possessing no depth of moral feeling or nobleness of senti¬ 
ment, the author never touches the grander chords of the 
heart, or creates generous enthusiasm; while his errors 
and his omissions give an impression unfavorable to his 
honesty and truthfulness. Hence, although copious and 
attractive, he is unsatisfactory, owing to the presence of 
Voltaire’s spirit of mockery of religion, at all times un¬ 
worthy of a historian, and not even easy or natural in 
Gibbon, since it militates against his labored elegance of 
expression, and seems an awkward attempt at witticism. 
Julian the Apostate is his idol. Let a Christian bishop, 
or a religious king appear, and immediately he hints at 
enthusiasm, superstition, or roguery; and often his sneers 
or cavils leave their trail upon the purest virtue and the 
most exalted heroism. He tries to show that the establish¬ 
ment and spreading of Christianity can be traced to 
secondary causes without reference to its divine origin. 


T11E MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


283 


These secondary causes reveal, indeed, what has been called 
the mechanism of its triumphs, but not the principle of 
them. 

His style is, in detail, particularly excellent; but he is 
too uniformly rich in ornament. His page is replete with 
Latin and French idiomatic turns. He is wanting in 
simplicity and purity; and his ornateness and pomp fatigue 
the ear, and displease the taste. 

His death, which occurred in 1794, was occasioned by a 
disease which he had endured for twenty-three years. 
Only a few hours before his death, he said that he thought 
himself good’ for ten, twelve, or perhaps twenty years. 
Ilis miscellaneous works, with memoirs of his life and 
writings composed by himself, were published in 1799, by 
his friend Lord Sheffield. 

Term of the Conquest of Timour, or Tamerlane; iiis Tri- 

UMFH AT SAMARCAND; HIS DEATH ON TIIK ROAD TO CHINA. 

(a. d. 1405.) 

From the Irtish and Volga to the Persian Gulf, and from the 
Ganges to Damascus and the Archipelago, Asia was in the hand 
of Timour; his armies were invincible, his ambition was bound¬ 
less, and his zeal might aspire to conquer and convert the Chris¬ 
tian kingdoms of the west, which already trembled at his name. 
He touched the utmost verge of the land; but an insuperable 
though narrow sea rolled between the two continents of Europe 
and Asia, and the lord of so many tomans, or myriads of horse, 
was not master of a single galley. The two passages of the Bos¬ 
phorus and Hellespont, of Constantinople and Gallipoli, were 
possessed, the one by the Christians, the other by the Turks. On 
this great occasion they forgot the difference of religion, to act 
with union and firmness in the common cause: the double straits 
were guarded with ships and fortifications; and they separately 
withheld the transports, which Timour demanded of either nation, 
under the pretence of attacking their enemy. At the same time 
they soothed his pride with tributary gifts and suppliant embas¬ 
sies, and prudently tempted him to retreat with the honors of 


284 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


victory. Soliinan, the son of Bajazet, implored his clemency for 
his father and himself; accepted, by a red patent, the investiture 
of the kingdom of Romania, which he already held by the sword ; 
and reiterated his ardent wish, of casting himself in person at the 
feet of the king of the world. The Greek emperor—either John 
or Manuel—submitted to pay the same tribute which he had 
stipulated with the Turkish sultan, and ratified the treaty by an 
oath of allegiance, from which he could absolve his conscience so 
soon as the Mogul arms had retired from Anatolia. But the fears 
and fancy of nations ascribed to the ambitious Tamerlane a 
new design of vast and romantic compass—a design of subduing 
Egypt and Africa, marching from the Nile to the Atlantic Ocean, 
entering Europe by the Straits of Gibraltar, and, after imposing 
his yoke upon the kingdoms of Christendom, of returning home 
by the deserts of Russia and Tartary. This remote and perhaps 
imaginary danger was averted by the submission of the Sultan of 
Egypt; the honors of the prayer and the coin attested at Cairo 
the supremacy of Timour ; and a rare gift of a giraffe, or 
cameleopard, and nine ostriches, represented at Samarcand the 
tribute of the African world. Our imagination is not less aston¬ 
ished by the portrait of a Mogul who, in his camp before Smyrna, 
meditates and almost accomplishes the invasion of the Chinese 
empire. Timour was urged to this enterprize by national honor 
and religious zeal. The torrents which he had shed of Mussul¬ 
man blood could be expiated only by an equal destruction of the 
infidels; and as he now stood at the gates of Paradise, he might 
best secure his glorious entrance by demolishing the idols of 
China, founding mosques in every city, and establishing the pro¬ 
fession of faith in one God and his prophet Mohammed. The 
recent expulsion of the house of Zingis was an insult on the 
Mogul name ; and the disorders of the empire afforded the fairest 
opportunity for revenge. The illustrious Hongvou, founder of 
the dynasty of Ming, died four years before the battle of Angora ; 
and his grandson, a weak and unfortunate youth, was burnt in his 
palace, after a million of Chinese had perished in the civil war. 
Before he evacuated Anatolia, Timour despatched beyond the 
Sihoon a numerous army, or rather colony* of old and new 
subjects, to open the road, to subdue the pagan Calmucks and 
Mungals, and to found cities and magazines in the desert; and 
by the diligence of his lieutenant, he soon received a perfect map 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


285 


and description of the unknown regions, from the source of the 
Irtish to the walls of China. During these preparations, the 
emperor achieved the final conquest of Georgia, passed the winter 
on the banks of the Araxes, appeased the troubles of Persia, and 
slowly returned to his capital, after a campaign of four years and 
nine months. 

On tha throne of Samarcand, he displayed in a short repose 
his magnificence and power ; listened to the complaints of the 
people, distributed a just measure of rewards and punishments, 
employed his riches in the architecture of palaces and temples, 
and gave audience to the ambassadors of Egypt, Arabia, India, 
Tatary, Russia, and Spain, the last of whompresented a suit of 
tapestry which eclipsed the pencil of the oriental artists. The 
marriage of six*of the emperor’s grandsons was esteemed an act 
of religion as well as of paternal tenderness; and the pomp of 
the ancient caliphs was revived in their nuptials. They were 
celebrated in the gardens of Canighul, decorated with innumera¬ 
ble tents and pavilions, which displayed the luxury of a great 
city and the spoils of a victorious camp. Whole forests were cut 
down to supply fuel for the kitchen ; the plain was spread with 
pyramids of meat and vases of every liquor, to which thousands 
of guests were courteously invited; the orders of the state, and 
the nations of the earth were marshalled at the royal banquet; 
nor \vere the ambassadors of Europe (says the haughty Persian) 
excluded from the feast; since even the casses, the smallest of 
fish, find their place in the ocean. 

The public joy was testified by illuminations and masquerades ; 
the trades of Samarcand passed in review; and every trade was 
emulous to execute some quaint device, some marvellous pageant, 
with the materials of their peculiar aft. After the marriage- 
contracts had been ratified by the cadhis, the bridegrooms and 
their brides retired to the nuptial chambers; nine times, accord¬ 
ing to the Asiatic fashion, they were dressed and undressed; and 
at each change of apparel, pearls and rubies were showered on 
their heads, and contemptuously abandoned to their attendants. 
A general indulgence was proclaimed ; every law was relaxed, 
every pleasure was allowed; the people w T ere free, the sovereign 
was idle ; and the historian of Timour may remark, that, after 
devoting fifty years to the attainment of empire, the only happy 
period of his life was the two months in which he ceased to exer- 


286 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


cise his power. But lie was soon awakened to the cares of govern¬ 
ment and war. The standard was unfurled for the invasion of 
China; the emirs made their report of two hundred thousand, 
the select and veteran soldiers of Iran and Touran ; their baggage 
and provisions were transported by five hundred great wagons, 
and an immense train of horses and camels ; and the troops might 
prepare for a long absence, since more then six months were em¬ 
ployed in the tranquil journey of a caravan from Samarcand to 
Pekin. Neither age nor the severity of the winter could retard 
the impatience of Timour ; he mounted on horseback, passed the 
Sihoon on the ice, marched seventy six parasangs (three hundred 
miles) from his capital, and pitched his last camp in the neigh¬ 
borhood of Otrar, where he was expected by the angel of death. 
Fatigue and the indiscreet use of iced water, accelerated the 
progress of his fever; and the conqueror of Asia expired in the 
seventieth year of his age, thirty-live after he had ascended the 
throne of Zagatai. His designs were lost; his armies were dis¬ 
banded; China was saved; and fourteen years after his disease, 
the most powerful of his children sent an embassy of friendship 
and commerce to the court of Pekin. 

EDMUND BURKE, 1730-1797. 

Edmund Burke, one of the greatest philosophic states¬ 
men and orators of modern times, was born in Dublin, in 
1730. His father, Richard Burke, originally a catholic, 
could not retain the office of notary but by a change of 
religion. The young Burke began his education with a 
Quaker. He studied afterwards at Trinity College, Dub¬ 
lin, and was also for some time at the English Catholic 
College of St. Omer. As a boy he was distinguished for 
that devoted application to the acquisition of knowledge, 
and remarkable powers of comprehension and retention, 
which accompanied him through life. “ When we were at 
play,” remarked his brother Richard, “ he was always at 
work.” 

His first publication was anonymous, entitled A Vindi¬ 
cation of Natural Society. It was so admirable an imita- 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 287 

tion of the style and thought of Lord Bolingbroke, that 
many were deceived by it. It was ironical throughout, and 
intended to prove that the same arguments with which that 
infidel writer had attacked revealed religion might be ap¬ 
plied with equal force against all civil and political insti¬ 
tutions whatever. 

In 1757 lie published his Essay on the Sublime and 
Beautiful , which, by the elegance of its language and the 
spirit of philosophical investigation displayed in it, placed 
him at once in the very first class of writers on taste and 
criticism. His object is to show that terror is the principal 
source of the 'Sublime, and that the domain of beauty is 
grace, delicacy, and affection. There are in this essay 
many paradoxical ideas, but in no other work of the kind 
can we find distinctions so nice, observations more just, or 
a style more elegant. 

It would carry us beyond the limits of our compilation, 
to give an outline of his parliamentary and political career. 
His life is a history of those eventful times. In the pro¬ 
longed contest between England and our own country, he 
devoted himself to the defense of the Colonies. His advo¬ 
cacy of the Freedom of the Press, of Catholic emancipa¬ 
tion, of economical Reform, and of the abolition of the 
Slave trade; and his great efforts on the impeachment of 
Warren Hastings, will forever identify his name with 
whatever is great, elevated, and just in statesmanship and 
legislation. 

His speeches and pamphlets on the French Revolution, 
and especially his incomparable work entitled Reflections 
on the Revolution in France, are perhaps as wonderful 
for their sagacity, their penetration, their intensity of pre¬ 
dictive power 


‘ The vision and the faculty divine, 7 


288 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


as they are admirable for the splendid eloquence of their 
expression. The distinguished F. Schlegel is enthusiastic 
in his praise: “This man,” says he, “has been to his own 
country, and to all Europe—in a particular manner to 
Germany—a new light of political wisdom and moral ex¬ 
perience. He corrected his age, when it was at the height 
of its revolutionary frenzy; and without maintaining any 
system of philosophy, he seems to have seen farther into 
the true nature of society, and to have more clearly com¬ 
prehended the effect of religion in connecting individual 
security with national welfare, than any philosopher or any 
system of philosophy of any succeeding age.” 

In 1785, he conceived the plan of the Annual Register, 
or Review of the civil, political, and literary transactions 
of the times, a work since continued with success and pub¬ 
lished to the present day. 

His last production, the Letters on a Regicide Peace, 
published a few months before his death, is distinguished 
by the same fervent eloquence, profound wisdom, and far- 
seeing sagacity that characterized his earlier productions 
on the French Revolution, and entitled him to be styled 
the deliverer of his age from the dark abyss of intellectual 
corruption and infidelity into which it was plunged. 

The writings of Burke are, indeed, the only political 
writings of a past age that continue to be read with 
interest in the present; and they are now perhaps more 
studied, and their value both philosophical and oratorical, 
better and more highly appreciated, than even when they 
were first produced. His Oratory was preeminently that 
of a full mind, which makes excursions into a vast variety 
of subjects connected by the slightest and most evanescent 
associations, and that in a diction as rich and varied as the 
matter. The length however of his speeches, their copious¬ 
ness, abundance of ornament and wide field of speculation, 


TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 289 

produced impatience in men of business absorbed in the 
particular subject of debate. 

“ It is gratifying to know,” says Allibone, “ that in the 
brilliancy and beauty of the portrait we have presented of 
Burke there are no incongruous colors in the back-ground ; 
we are not called upon to deplore the union of splendid 
talents and degrading vices, of public philanthropy and 
private venality: the spotless ermine covers no hidden cor¬ 
ruption. He was ever the bold uncompromising champion 
of justice, mercy, and truth. Impartial in his jndgment, 
unswayed by every wind of political doctrine, he as zeal¬ 
ously denounced that arbitrary power which oppressed the 
American colonies, as he rebuked that hurricane of fierce 
democracy which swept the throne and the altar from 
France, and involved the court and commonalty in general 
ruin.” 

His domestic comfort was irretrievably impaired, and his 
life probably shortened by the death of his son in 1794. He 
thus adverts to his loss in his celebrated letter to a noble 
Lord: “ I live in an inverted order. They who ought to 
have succeeded me, have gone before me. They who should 
have been to me as posterity, are in the place of ancestors. 
The storm has gone over me ; and I lie like one of those 
old oaks which the late hurricane hath scattered about me. 
I am stripped of all my honors: I am torn up by the roots, 
and lie prostrate on the earth ! There, and prostrate there, 
I must unfeignedly recognize the divine justice, and in 
some degree submit to it.” The three years during which 
he survived this bereavement, were principally employed in 
schemes and acts of benevolence and charity. He founded 
a school for the children of French emigrants. Its perma¬ 
nent support formed one of his latest cares. He calmly 
expired at his country seat of Beaconsfield in July, 1797, 
retaining the perfect possession of his faculties to the last. 

25 




290 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Qualification for Government. 

Prom Reflections on the Revolution in France. 

There is no qualification for government, hut virtue and wis¬ 
dom, actual or presumptive. 

"Wherever they are actually found, they have, in whatever 
state, condition, profession, or trade, the passport of Heaven to 
human place and honor. 

Woe to the country which would madly and impiously reject 
the service of the talents and virtues, civil,' military, or religious, 
that are given to grace and to serve it; and would condemn to 
obscurity everything formed to diffuse lustre and glory around a 
state. Woe to that country, too, that passing into the opposite 
extreme, considers a low education, a mean contracted view of 
things, a sordid, mercenary occupation, as a preferable title to 
command. Everything ought to be open, but not indifferently, 
to every man. No rotation; no appointment by lot; no mode 
of election operating in the spirit of sortition or rotation, can be 
generally good in a government conversant in extensive objects, 
because they have no tendency direct or indirect, to select the 
man with a view to the duty, or to accommodate the one to the 
other. I do not hesitate to say, that the road to eminence and 
power, from obscure condition, ought not to be made too easy, 
nor a thing too much of course. If rare merit be the rarest of 
all rare things, it ought to pass through some sort of probation. 

The temple of honor ought to be seated on an eminence. If it 
be opened through virtue, let it be remembered too, that virtue 
is never tried but by some difficulty and some struggle. 

Marie Antoinette. 

From the same. 

It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of 
Prance, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never 
lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more 
delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating 
and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in,— 
glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendor, and 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


291 


joy. O ! what a revolution ! and what a heart must I have, to 
contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall! Little 
did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to those of 
enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be 
obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in 
that bosom ; little did I dream that I should have lived to see 
such disasters fallen upon her, in a nation of gallant men, in a 
nation of men of honor, and of cavaliers I I thought ten thou¬ 
sand swords must have leaped from their scabbards, to avenge 
even a look that threatened her with assault. 

But the age of chivalry is gone ; that of sophisters, economists 
and calculators, has succeeded: and the glory of Europe is 
extinguished forever. Never, never more, shall we behold that 
generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that 
dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept 
alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom ? 
The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the 
nurse of manly sentiment and heroic "enterprise, is gone ! It is 
gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honor, which 
felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it miti¬ 
gated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under 
which vice itself lost half its evil, by losing all its grossness. 


WILLIAM COWTER, 1731-1800. 

William Cowper, the poet of ordinary life and domestic 
emotions, was born in Hertfordshire, England, of an aris¬ 
tocratic family. He is one of the first among the English 
poets that ventured to describe those familiar thoughts and 
feelings, which are imaged by the word home, a word for 
which so many cultivated languages have no equivalent. 
When ten years of age, he was sent to Westminster School, 
where he remained for seven years. The timid, sensitive 
character of the poet was but little suited to the rude 
conflicts to which school-boys are often subjected; and a 
portion of his youthful days was embittered by the tyranny 
practiced on him by a senior scholar of the most intolerable 


292 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


character. His subsequent life was singularly unhappy, 
the greater part of it being clouded with insanity, brought 
on perhaps by a morbid timidity and fostered by religious 
melancholy. Having imbibed the Calvinistic doctrine of 
election and reprobation in its most appalling rigor, he 
was led to a dismal state of apprehension; and it is said 
that the temporary derangement of his faculties was caused 
by his terror of the eternal judgment. His poetical genius 
was not exhibited until an unusually advanced age. He 
was fifty before he obtained any reputation as a writer. In 
1181, he was induced to prepare a volume of Poems for 
the press. The principal topics are the Progress of Error, 
Truth, Expostulation, Hope, Charity, Retiremtnt, and 
Conversation,—all of which are treated with originality 
and vigor of style. But the volume did not attract any 
great degree of popular attention. It is to the influence 
and suggestion of Lady Austen that we are indebted for 
the exquisitely humorous ballad of John Gilpin , and the 
author’s masterpiece, The Task, published in 1185. This 
poem starts from a mock-heroic introduction giving a ludi¬ 
crous account of the rise and origin of the sofa, and easily 
glides into exquisite descriptions of rural scenery and 
inimitable pictures of homeborn and domestic happiness. 
In the same year was published his Tirocinium , a poem on 
the subject of education, intended to censure the want of 
discipline and the inattention to morals which prevailed in 
public schools. It abounds with striking observations, 
whatever may be thought of the discussions against public 
education. His translation of Homer appeared in 1191. 
This work possesses much exactness as to sense; and is 
certainly a more accurate representation of Homer than 
the version of Pope ; but English blank verse cannot suffi¬ 
ciently sustain the less poetical parts of Homer, and the, 
general effect is bald and prosaic. This, in the opinion of 


TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 293 

Prof. Craik, is bis least successful performance. “ He was 
straining to imitate a style not only unlike his own, but 
unfortunately quite as unlike that of his original: for 
these versions of the most natural of all poetry, the 
Homeric, are strangely enough attempted in the manner 
of the most artificial of all poets, Milton.” * Disappointed 
at the reception of this laborious work, he meditated a 
revision of it, and also a new didactic poem entitled The 
Four Ages. But although he occasionally wrote a few 
verses, and revised his Odyssey amidst his glimmerings of 
reason, those and all other undertakings finally gave way 
to a relapse of his malady. His disorder continued with 
little intermission to the close of life, which, sad to relate, 
ended in a state of absolute despair, towards the beginning 
of the year 1800. His prose works are confined almost 
exclusively to his letters, which now occupy the very first 
rank in epistolary literature. 

Angus thus sums up the characteristics of his poetry— 
“ The qualities which gave Cowper a high place in our 
poesy it is difficult to define. For humor and quiet satire, 
for appreciation of natural beauty and domestic life, for 
strong good sense and devout piety, for public spirit and 
occasional sublimity, for gentle and noble sentiment, for 
fine descriptive powers employed with skill on outward 
scenes and on character, for ease and colloquial freedom 
of style, and for the strength and harmony of his later 
versification especially, he has rarely been equalled : and 
for these qualities combined he has never been surpassed. 
... He is practically the founder of the modern school of 
poets—an honor he owes chiefly to his reality and natural¬ 
ness. It is this excellence which gives attractiveness to all 
he has written. Pope’s poems are at least as finished as 


* Manual of Eng. Literature, by Prof. Craik. 


25 * 



294 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


the best of Cowper’s, and more finished than most of his 
earlier pieces. Young is often as apparently religious, 
sometimes as merry, and certainly as witty. Thomson’s 
pictures of nature have greater variety and more ideal 
beauty than Cowper’s. But Pope’s poetry is art, Cow¬ 
per’s nature. Young’s religion and mirth seem to belong 
to two different men. From every line Cowper has written 
the very man beams forth, always natural, consistent, and 
unaffected ; . . . the poet lives and moves in every scene.” 

The Diverting History of John Gilpin. 

John Gilpin was a citizen 
Of credit and renown, 

A train-hand Captain ckc was he 
Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear— 

“ Though wedded we have been 
These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
No holiday have seen. 

To-morrow is our wedding-day, 

And we will then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton 
All in a chaise and pair. 

My sister and my sister’s child, 

Myself and children three, 

Will fill the chaise; so you must ride 
On horseback after we.” 

He soon replied— u I do admire 
Of womankind but one, 

And you are she, my dearest dear, 

Therefore it shall be done. 

I am a linen-draper bold, 

As all the world doth know, 

And my good friend the Calender 
Will lend his horse to go.” 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


Quoth Mrs. Gilpin—“ That's well said ; 

And for that wine is dear, 

We will be furnish’d with our own, 

Which is both bright and clear.” 

John Gilpin kiss’d his loving wife ; 

O’erjoyed was he to find 
That, though on pleasure she was bent, 

She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought, 
But yet was not allow’d 
To drive up to the door, lest all 
Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was stay’d, 
Where they did all get in ; 

Six precious souls, and all agog 
To dash through thick and thin. 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheel 
Were never folk so glad, 

The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse’s side 
Seized fast the flowing mane, 

And up he got, in haste to ride, 

But soon came down again ; 

* 

For saddle-tree scarce reach’d had he, 

His journey to begin, 

When, turning round his head, he saw 
Three customers come in. 

So down he came; for loss of time, 

Although it grieved him sore, 

Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 

Would trouble him much more. 

’Twas long before the customers 
Were suited to their mind, 

When Betty screaming came down stairs, 

“ The wine is left behind ! ” 


296 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


“ Good lack! ” quoth he ; “yet bring it me, ^ 
My leathern belt likewise, 

In which I bear my trusty sword 
When I do exercise.” 

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul) 

Had two stone bottles found, 

To hold the liquor that she loved, 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling ear, 

Through which the belt he drew, 

And hung a bottle on each side, 

To make his balance true. 

Then over all, that he might be 
Equipp’d from top to toe, 

His long red cloak, well brush’d and neat, 

He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 
Upon his nimble steed, 

Eull slowly pacing o’er the stones 
With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a smoother road 
Beneath his well-shod feet, 

The snorting beast began to trot, 

Which gall’d him in his seat. 

So “ Fair and softly,” John he cried ; 

But John he cried in vain ; 

That trot became a gallop soon, 

In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 
Who cannot sit upright, 

He grasp’d the mane with both his hands, 

And eke with all his might. 

His horse, who never in that sort 
Had handled been before, 

What thing upon his back had got 
Did wonder more and more. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


297 


Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; 
Away went hat and wig ; 

He little dreamt, when he set out, 

Of running such a rig. 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 
Like streamer long and gay, 

Till, loop and button failing both, 

At last it flew away. 

Then might all people well discern 
The bottles he had slung; 

A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, 
Up flew the windows all ; 

And every soul cried out, “ Well done! ” 
As loud as he could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin—who but he? 

His fame soon spread around— 

“He carries weight! he rides a race ! 

’Tis for a thousand pound ! ” 

And still, as fast as he drew near, 

’Twas wonderful to view 

How in a trice the turnpike men 
Their gates wide open threw. 

And now, as he went bowing down 
His reeking head full low, 

The bottles twain behind his back 
Were shatter’d at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road, 

Most piteous to be seen, 

W'hich made his horse’s flanks to smoke 
As they had basted been. 

But still he seem’d to carry weight, 

With leathern girdle braced ; 

For all might see the bottle necks 
Still dangling at his waist. 


298 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Thus all through merry Islington. 

These gambols he did play, 

Until he came unto the Wash 
Of Edmonton so gay ; 

And there he threw the wash about 
On both sides of the way, 

Just like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving wife 
From the balcony spied 

Her tender husband, wondering much 
To see how he did ride. 

“Stop, stop, John Gilpin I—Here’s the house,” 
They all aloud did cry ; 

“ The dinner waits, and we are tired.” 

Said Gilpin—“So am I.” 

But yet his horse was not a whit 
Inclined to tarry there; 

Eor why ?—His owner had a house 
Full ten miles off at Ware. 

So like an arrow swift he flew 
Shot by an archer strong ; 

So did he fly—which brings me to 
The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin out of breath, 

And sore against his will, 

Till at his friend’s the Calender’s 
His horse, at last stood still. 

The Calender, amazed to see 
His neighbor in such trim, 

Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him: 

“ What news? what news ? your tidings tell, 
Tell me you must and shall; 

Say why bare-headed you are come, 

Or why you come at all ? ” 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


299 


Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And loved a timely joke ; 

And thus unto the Calender 
In merry guise he spoke:— 

“ I came because your horse would come j 
And, if 1 well forbode, 

My hat and wig will soon be here— 

They are upon the road.” 

The Calender, right glad to find 
His friend in merry pin, 

Return'd him not a single word, 

But to the house went in ; 

“Whence straight he came with hat and wig ; 
A wig that flow’d behind, 

A hat not much the worse for wear, 

Each comely in its kind. 

He held them up, and in his turn 
Thus show’d his ready wit: 

“ My head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore needs must fit. 

But let me scrape the dirt away 
That hangs upon your face ; 

And stop and eat, for well you may 
Be in a hungry case.” 

Said John—“ It is my wedding-day, 

And all the world would stare 

If wife should dine at Edmonton, 

And I should dine at Ware.” 

So, turning to his horse, he said, 

“ I am in haste to dine ; 

’Twas for your pleasure you came here, 

You shall go back for mine.” 

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast I 
For which he paid full dear ; 

For while he spake, a braying ass 
Did sing most loud and clear ; 


300 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Whereat his horse did snort, as he 
Had heard a lion roar, 

And gallop’d off with all his might, 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 
■Went Gilpin’s hat and wig : 

He lost them sooner than at first; 

For why ?—They were too big. 

How Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 
Her husband posting down 
Into the country far away, 

She pull’d out half a crown ; 

And thus unto the youth she said 
That drove them to the Bell, 

“ This shall be yours when you bring back 
My husband safe and well.” 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 
John coming back amain, 

Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 

By catching at his rein : 

But not performing what he meant, 

And gladly would have done, 

The frighted steed he frighted more, 

And made him faster run. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 
Went post-boy at his heels, 

The post-boy’s horse right glad to miss 
The lumbering of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road 
Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 

With post-boy scampering in the rear, 

They raised the hue and cry : 

“ Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman !” 

Not one of them was mute ; 

And all and each that pass’d that way 
Did join in the pursuit. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


301 


And now the turnpike-gates again 
Flew open in short space; 

The tollmen thinking as before 
That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so he did ; and won it too ; 

For he got first to town ; 

Nor stopp’d till where he had got up 
He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, Long live the king, 

And Gilpin, long live he ; 

And when he next doth ride abroad, 

May* I be there to see ! 

JAMES BEATTIE, 1735-1803. 

James Beattie, a pleasing poet and miscellaneous writer, 
was born in Lawrencekirk, Scotland, in 1735. Having 
obtained a bursary in Marischal College, Aberdeen, he 
remained there four years. Later on, he was appointed 
Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic in the same 
college, and this post he retained nearly to the time of his 
death. His principal works comprise a volume of Poems ; 
his Essay on Truth, intended as an antidote to the phil¬ 
osophy of Hume ; three other Essays—on Poetry and 
Music , on Laughter and Ludicrous Composition, and on 
the Utility of Classical Learning; finally, The Minstrel, 
a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, which was 
most favorably received. 

Beattie’s Essay on Truth is now but little read. His 
fame rests chiefly upon The Minstrel. It is, as he has 
described it himself, a didactic poem designed 1 to trace the 
progress of a poetical genius born in a rude age, from the 
first dawning of fancy and reason, till that period at which 
he may be supposed capable of appearing in the world as 
a minstrel.’ It is written with great harmony of style, 
26 



302 BRITISH LITERATURE. 

rich imagery, and delicate sentiments. The character of 
Edwin, the minstrel, is very finely drawn, and a vein of 
pathetic moral reflections runs through the poem which is 
elevating in its influence. 

The spot where he resided in early life, was remarkable 
for wildness and beauty of scenery. He loved to contem¬ 
plate nature in all its variety, and it was there that he first 
indulged his passion for poetry. 

. Thy shades, thy silence now be mine, 

Thy charms my only theme ; 

My haunt the hollow cliff* whose pine 
Waves o’er the glossy stream ; 

Whence the scared owl on pinions grey 
Breaks from the rustling boughs, 

And down the lone vale sails away 
To more profound repose. 

Domestic afflictions gradually broke down his mind and 
spirits. In 1799, he was seized with a paralytic stroke, 
from which he partially recovered; but, from that period 
until 1803, he had repeated attacks of the same malady, 
which terminated his life in the month of August of that 
year at the age of sixty-eight. 


The Hermit’s Reflections. 

Prom The Minstrel , B. II. 

One cultivated spot there was, that spread 
Its flowery bosom to the noonday beam, 

Where many a rosebud rears its blushing head, 
And herbs for food with future plenty teem. 
Soothed by the lulling sound of grove and stream, 
Romantic visions swarm on Edwin’s soul: 

He minded not the sun’s last trembling gleam, 
Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll; 
When slowly on his ear these moving accents stole : 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


303 


“ Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast, 

And woo the weary to profound repose I 
Can passion’s wildest uproar lay to rest, 

And whisper comfort to the man of woes ! 

Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes, 

And Contemplation soar on seraph wings. 

O Solitude ! the man who thee foregoes, 

When lucre lures him, or ambition stings, 

Shall never know the source whence real grandeur springs. 

“ Yain man ! is grandeur given to gay attire ? 

Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid : 

To friends, attendants, armies, bought with hire ? 

It is thy weakness that requires their aid : 

To palaces, with gold and gems inlaid? 

They fear the thief, and tremble in the storm : 

To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade ? 

Behold the victor vanquished by the worm ! 

Behold, what deeds of woe the locust can perform ! . . . 

“ The end atid the reward of toil is rest. 

Be all my prayer for virtue and for peace. 

Of wealth and fame, of pomp and power possessed, 

Who ever felt his weight of woe decrease ? 

Ah ! what avails the lore of Rome and Greece, 

The lay heaven-prompted, and harmonious string, 

The dust of Ophir, or the Tyrian fleece, 

All that art, fortune, enterprise, can bring, 

If envy, scorn, remorse, or pride, the bosom wring ? . . . 

“ For though I fly to ’scape from Fortune’s rage, 

And bear the scars of envy, spite, and scorn, 

Yet with mankind no horrid war I wage, 

Yet with no impious spleen my breast is torn : 

For virtue lost, and ruined man, I mourn. 

O man ! creation’s pride, Heaven’s darling child, 

Whom Nature’s best, divinest gifts adorn, 

Why from their home are truth and joy exiled, 

And all thy favorite haunts with blood and tears defiled? 


304 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


“Along yon glittering sky what glory streams ! 

What majesty attends Night’s lovely queen! 

Fair laugh our valleys in the vernal beams ; 

And mountains rise, and oceans roll between, 

And all conspire to beautify the scene. 

But, in the mental world, what chaos drear ! 

What forms of mournful, loathsome, furious mien ! 

O when shall that eternal morn appear, 

These dreadful forms to chase, this chaos dark to clear ?” 

GEORGE GORDON BYRON, 1788-1824. 

George Gordon Byron, a poet of elevated genius, was 
born in London in 1788. At the age of seventeen, lie 
entered Trinity College, Cambridge, where his impatience 
under restraint and faults against discipline drew upon 
him much unavoidable rebuke; and where he wasted the 
hours which, if properly employed, would have secured 
him a solid foundation of learning, instead of habits of 
reckless profligacy. He quitted college after two years, 
and took up his residence at the family seat of Newstead 
Abbey.* Whilst at his homestead, he prepared for publi¬ 
cation his earliest production under the title of Hours of 
Idleness, a collection of fugitive poems, original and trans¬ 
lated, in no way remarkable; and chiefly remembered on 
account of the castigation it received from the Edinburgh 
Review, and his own pungent retort entitled English Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers . The first two cantos of Childe 
Harold were published in the spring of 1812. The poem, 
in whose numbers the Spenserian stanza is felicitously 
revived, was received at once with the utmost enthusiasm. 
“ I awoke,” says the author, 11 one morning, and found 


♦Newstead Abbey, originally an Augustinian monastery, founded by 
Henry II., and granted by Henry VIII. to John Byron, at the time of the 
spoliation of the monasteries. Of the abbey church, only one end remains. 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


305 


myself famous.’’ In May of the next year appeared his 
Giaour; in November, his Bride of Abydos; and three 
months afterwards, The Corsair. These narrative poems, 
with the exception of Th.e Corsair , were written in the 
irregular-rhymed metres which Scott had brought into 
fashion. They have rarely any pretensions to ingenuity 
of plot, or connected development of incident. They have 
no variety of character, and are rather delineations of 
moments of intense passion in Oriental life. During his 
residence in the neighborhood of Geneva, he produced the 
third canto of Childe Harold, the most admired of the 
four; and the Prisoner of Chillon , a painful story told 
with inimitable tenderness. The short poem of Beppo 
appeared in 1818. His dramas, most of which are decla¬ 
matory and undramatic, some of them as Cain and Man¬ 
fred exhibiting a mocking sceptical spirit, were written 
whilst he resided at Ravenna. Byron’s genius was singu¬ 
larly deficient in scenic power, principally from his want of 
I variety in all his attempts at creating character. 

At length appeared the concluding canto of Childe - 
Harold. His first design had been to imitate in this 
: poem, not only the stanza but also the quaint and anti¬ 
quated air of The Fairie Queene. The very title, Childe , 
which, in old legendary language, signifies knight, is a 
proof of this. However he soon abandoned this forced 
masquerade of diction. Harold, the hero of the poem, 
is an exhausted, disappointed libertine, wdio recklessly 
wanders over the earth; but who is sometimes capable of 
being roused for a moment, by contempt or admiration ; by 
the base or the beautiful; by patriotism or by despair. 
The pictures of nature, of man, of society, which crowd 
the four cantos, are not surpassed in English or any other 
literature. The poem begins and ends with the ocean, to 
whose majestic undulations and changing aspects of gloom 
26* 


306 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


and sunshine, of calm and tempest, of melancholy grandeur 
and immeasureable depth, it bears no faint similitude. 

The extraordinary poem that closed his literary career, 
Don Juan, is the most complete embodiment of all the 
discordant elements of this poet’s wayward life. The 
primary characteristic of Don Juan is a rapid and inces¬ 
sant alternation of the severest satire and the gayest and 
most comic impressions with images the most solemn and 
pathetic. There can be but one opinion of the intensity 
of the wit in this poem and the absence of humor; but the 
wit is of the cold and caustic character of Beaumarchais 
and Voltaire. We must add that the poem is fatally 
marred by a coarseness of narrative which no art can 
redeem, and a grossness of obscenity which has entailed a 
lasting stigma on the poet’s memory. 

The genius of Lord Byron is one of the most remarkable 
in our literature for originality, versatility, and energy. 
His energy is his most striking quality: * thoughts that 
breathe and words that burn ’ are the common staple of his 
poetry. He is everywhere impressive; and his poems 
abound in sentiments of great dignity and tenderness, as 
well as in passages of rare sublimity and beauty. But 
what renders his writings in the highest degree pernicious, 
is, in the judgment of Lord Jeffrey, their tendency to 
destroy all belief in the reality of virtue, and to make all 
enthusiasm and consistency of affection ridiculous. The 
following opinion of the character of Byron’s poetry is 
from the pen of Lord Macaulay: “Never had any writer 
so vast a command of the whole eloquence of scorn, 
misanthropy, and despair. His principal heroes are men 
who have arrived by different roads at the same goal of 
despair; who are sick of life ; who are at war with society; 
who are supported in their anguish only by an unquench¬ 
able pride, resembling that of Prometheus on the rock, or 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


307 


of Satan in the burning marl; who can master their 
agonies by the force of their will, and who at the last defy 
the whole power of earth and heaven. He always de¬ 
scribed himself as a man of the same kind with his favorite 
creations ; as a man whose heart had been withered, whose 
capacity for happiness was gone, and could not be restored; 
but whose invincible spirit dared the worst that could 
befall him here or hereafter.” “His works,” says Cleve¬ 
land, “cannot as a whole be read without the most inju¬ 
rious influence upon the moral sensibilities. His complete 
works ought never to be purchased; and we may feel proud 
not to be acquainted with them, except by extracts and 
beauties.” 

In 1823 he hired an English vessel, and sailed for Ceph- 
alonica, in order to aid in the deliverance of Greece from 
the Mahometan thraldom; and he attempted to raise a 
force with which to attack Lepanto. But being foiled in 
his plans, he became the victim of disappointment and 
chagrin. His constitution gave way, and he was attacked 
by fits of epilepsy. In the month of April, 1824, he 
breathed his last. His body was brought to England and 
interred near his own seat of Newstead Abbey, where a 
plain marble slab merely records his name, title, date of 
death and age. 


Apostrophe to the Ocean. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 

Man marks the earth with ruin—his control 
Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own, 

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan— 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 


308 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


His steps are not upon thy paths—thy fields 

Are not a spoil for him—thou dost arise 

And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 

For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise, 

Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 

And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray, 

And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 

And dashest him again to earth : there let him lay. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war: 

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 

They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the armada’s pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee— 
Assyria, Greece, Borne, Carthage, what are they ? 

Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 

And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : not so thou ; 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves’ play. 

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow : 

Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form 
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 

Calm or convulsed—in breeze, or gale, or storm, 

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless, and sublime— 

The image of Eternity—the throne 
Of the Invisible : even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


309 


And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror—’twas a pleasing fear ; 

For I was as it were a child of thee, 

And trusted to thy billows far and near, 

And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here. 

St. Peter’s Church at Home. 

But lo ! the dome! — the vast and wondrous dome, 
To which Diana’s marvel was a cell— 

Christ’s mighty shrine, above his martyrs’ tomb! 

I have beheld the Ephesian miracle— 

Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyena and the jackal in their shade; 

I have beheld Sophia’s bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i’ the sun, and have survey’d 
Its sanctuary, the while th' usurping Moslem pray’d. 

But thou of temples old, or altars new, 

Standest alone, with nothing like to thee : 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true, 

Since Sion’s desolation, when that He 
Forsook his former city, what could bo 
Of earthly structures, in his honor piled, 

Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, 

Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled 
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 

Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; 

And why ? it is not lessen’d ; but thy mind, 
Expanded by the genius of the spot, 

Has grown colossal, and can only find 
A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 

See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 


310 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Thou movest, but increasing with the advance, 

Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, 
Deceived by its gigantic elegance: 

Yastness which grows—but grows to harmonize— 

All musical in its immensities ; 

Kich marbles—richer painting—shrines where flame 
The lamps of gold—and haughty dome, which vies 
In air with earth’s chief structure, though their frame 
Sits on the firm-set ground, and this the clouds must clai 


Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break, 
To separate contemplation, thd great whole ; 

And as the ocean many bays will make, 

That ask the eye—so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts, until thy mind hath got by heart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
In mighty graduations, part by part, 

The glory which at once upon thee did not dart. 

Not by his fault—but thine : our outward sense 
Is but of gradual grasp—and, as it is, 

That what we have of feeling most intense 
Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this 
Outshining and o’erwhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and, greatest of the great, 
Defies, at first, our nature’s littleness ; 

Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 

Then pause and be enlighten’d, there is more 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder pleased, or awe, which would adore 
The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
Of art, and its great masters, who could raise 
What former time, nor skill nor thought could plan ; 
The fountain of sublimity displays 
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. 


TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


311 


WILLIAM ROSCOE, 1753-1831. 

William Roscoe, author of the Life of Lorenzo de 
Medici and of Leo X ., was born in Liverpool of humble 
parents. While engaged as clerk to an attorney, he de¬ 
voted his leisure hours to the cultivation of his taste for 
poetry and elegant literature, and acquired a competent 
knowledge of the Latin, French, and Italian languages. 
To illustrate the evils of slavery, he wrote a poem on the 
Wrongs of Africa , and also a pamphlet on the same 
subject, which was translated into French by Madame 
]S T ecker. In T789, he applied himself to the great task he 
had long meditated—a biographical account of Lorenzo de 
Medici; and published, in 1796, the result of his highly 
successful labors in two quarto volumes, a work which at 
once elevated him into the proud position of one of the 
most popular authors of the day. 

His next literary appearance was as translator of The 
Nurse, a poem from the Italian of Luigi Tansillo. 

In 1805 was published his second great work, The Life 
and Pontificate of Leo X., in four quarto volumes, which, 
though carefully prepared and also enriched with new 
information, did not obtain the same success as his Life of 
Lorenzo. The many subtle disputations, as well as topics 
of character and conduct, which the history of the pontifi¬ 
cate required, and the great candor and discernment of the 
writer, did not satisfy many of his partial readers. 

In Parliament, to which he was elected in 1806, he 
spoke in favor of the abolition of the slave trade and of 
the civil disabilities of the Catholics, which excited against 
him a powerful and violent opposition. 

Pecuniary embarrassments came to cloud his latter days. 
The banking establishment of which he was a partner, was 
forced in 1816 to suspend payment, and Mr. Roscoe had 


312 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


to sell his library, pictures, and other works of art. His 
love of literature, however, continued undiminished ; and, 
on the opening of the Royal Institution of Liverpool, he 
delivered an inaugural address on the origin and vicissi¬ 
tudes of literature, science, and arts, and their influence on 
the present state of society. In 1827, he received the 
great gold medal of the Royal society of Literature for 
his merits as a historian. He had previously edited The 
Works of Pope in ten volumes. His death occurred in 
1831. 


Eminence of the Pofes. 

From The Life of Leo X., Yol. I., Ch. I. 

The qualifications by which the pope is supposed to have 
merited the supreme authority, are such as would be most likely 
to direct him in the best mode of exercising it. Humility, 
chastity, temperance, vigilance, and learning, are among the 
chief of these requisites ; and although some of them have con¬ 
fessedly been too often dispensed with, yet few individuals have 
ascended the pontifical throne without possessing more than a 
common share of intellectual endowments. Hence the Roman 
pontiffs have frequently displayed examples highly worthy of 
imitation, and have signalized themselves in an eminent degree, 
as patrons of science, of letters, and of art. Cultivating, as 
ecclesiastics, those studies which were prohibited or discouraged 
among the laity, they may in general be considered as superior 
to the age in which they lived ; and among the predecessors of 
Leo X. the philosopher may contemplate with approbation the 
eloquence and courage of Leo I., who preserved the city of Rome 
from the ravages of the barbarian Attila ; the beneficence, candor, 
and pastoral attention of Gregory I., unjustly charged with being 
the adversary of liberal studies; the various acquirements of 
Silvester II., so extraordinary in the eyes of his contemporaries, 
as to cause him to be considered as a sorcerer ; the industry, 
acuteness, and learning of Innocent III., of Gregory IX., of 
Innocent IY., and of Pius II. ; and the munificence and love of 
literature so strikingly displayed in the character of Nicholas Y. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


313 


Diversity of opinion on the character of Lko X. 
Ibid., Yol. II , Ch. xxiv. 

Among all the individuals of ancient or modern times, who, 
by the circumstances of their lives, by their virtues, or by their 
talents, have attracted the attention of mankind, there is perhaps 
no one whose character has stood in so doubtful a light as that of 
Leo X. From the time of his pontificate to the present day, the 
applauses so liberally bestowed upon him by some, have been 
counterbalanced by the accusations and reproaches of others, and 
numerous causes have concurred in giving rise to erroneous opin¬ 
ions and violent, prejudices respecting him, into which it may 
now be n^cessar}*, or at least excusable, to institute a dispassionate 
inquiry. 

That distinguished excellence, or even superior rank and eleva¬ 
tion, is as certainly attended by envy and detraction as the 
substance is followed by the shadow, has been the standing 
remark of all ages ; but, independently of this common ground 
of attack, Leo X. was, from various circumstances, the peculiar 
object of censure and of abuse. This liability to misrepresentation 
commenced with his birth, which occurred in the bosom of a city 
at all times agitated by internal commotions, and where the 
preeminent station which his family had long occupied, rendered 
its members obnoxious to the attacks and reproaches of their 
political opponents. Hence almost all contemporary historians* 
may be considered as partisans, either warmly attached, or 
decidedly adverse to him ; a circumstance highly unfavorable to 
the impartiality of historical truth, and which ha3 tinged the 
current of information at its very source, with the peculiar col¬ 
oring of the narrator. . . . 

Another source of the great diversity of opinion respecting 
this pontiff, is to be traced to the high office which he filled, and 
to the manner in which he conducted himself in the political 
concerns of the times. As many of the Italian potentates, dur¬ 
ing the wars which desolated Italy, attached themselves to the 
cause of foreign powers, in like manner several of the Italian 
historians have espoused in their writings the interests of other 
nations, and have hence been led to regard the conduct of Leo 

27 


314 BRITISH LITERATURE. 

X. with an unfavorable eye, as the result of an ambitious and 
restless disposition. It may further be observed, that Leo 


frequently exerted his authority, and even employed his arms 
against the inferior potentates of Italy, some of whom severely 
felt the weight of his resentment: and that these princes have 
also had their annalists and panegyrists, who have not scrupled, 
on many occasions, to sacrifice the reputation of the pontiff to 
that of their patrons. To these may be added various other 
causes of offence, as well of a public as of a private nature, una¬ 
voidably given by the pontiff in the course of his pontificate, and 
which afforded a plausible opportunity to those whom he had 
offended, of vilifying his private character, and loading his 
memory with calumny and abuse. 

But the most fruitful cause of animosity against Leo X. is to 
be found in the violence of religious zeal and sectarian hatred. 
That he was chief of the Eoman Church has frequently been 
thought a sufficient reason for attacking him with the most 
illiberal invectives. To aspersions of this nature he was more 
particularly exposed by the circumstances of the times in which 
he lived, and by the part which he was obliged to act in opposing 
the progress of the Reformation. In this kind of warfare, Luther 
was himself a thorough proficient; nor have his disciples and 
advocates shown any want of ability in following his example. 
Still more unfortunate is it for the character of Leo, that whilst, 
by the measures which he adopted against the reformers, he drew 
down upon himself their most unlimited abuse, he has not always 
had the good fortune to escape the severe censure of the adherents 
of the Romish Church; many of whom have accused him of a 
criminal lenity, in neglecting to suppress the new opinions by 
more efficacious measures, and of attending to his own aggran¬ 
dizement or gratification, whilst the Church of Christ was suffer¬ 
ing for want of that aid which it was in his power alone to afford. 

WALTER SCOTT, 1771-1832. 

Sir Walter Scott, born in Edinburgh in 1771, is univer¬ 
sally considered as the greatest writer of imagination of 
this century. His poetry is characterized by F. Schlegel 
as the poetry of Reminiscence, as Byron’s is styled the 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


315 


poetry of Despair. It is hard to say whether his genius 
was most conspicuous in describing the varieties of nature, 
or delineating the passions of the heart: he was at once 
pictorial and dramatic. To this he owes his great success, 
his world-wide reputation. At the High School of Edin¬ 
burgh and in the University, he gained no great reputation 
for scholarship, being averse to Greek, addicted to athletic 
sports, and fond of miscellaneous reading. According to 
his own account, he had a distinguished character as a tale¬ 
teller. “ The chief employment of my holidays,” he says 
in the general introduction to his novels, “ was to escape 
with a chosen friend who had the same taste with myself, 
and alternately to recite to each other such wild adventures 
as we were able to devise.” At the age of fifteen, the 
breaking of a blood-vessel brought on an illness, which, to 
use his own words, ‘threw him back on the kingdom of 
fiction as if by a species of fatality.’ In 1802 appeared 
his first publication of any note, The Minstrelsy of the 
Scottish Border , which displayed much curious and 
abstruse learning, and gained the author no mean reputa¬ 
tion as an historical and traditionary poet. IIis first 
original work of considerable extent was The Lay of the 
Last Minstrel —a tale of sorcery and chivalric adventure, 
supposed*to be related by a wandering minstrel, the last of 
a profession once so honored. It is the first of those works 
which were to exercise such influence on our later literature. 
In 1808 appeared his Marmion, a poem somewhat similar 
in its scenery and treatment with the Lay and concluding 
with the fatal field of Flodden. The Lady of the Lake , 
1810—the Vision of Don Boderic, 1811— Bokeby, 1812, 
with some other works of less merit, marked his brilliant 
poetical career. The comparative merits of the three first 
mentioned poems, are now easily settled. The interest of 
the Lay depends chiefly upon the style ; that of Marmion, 


316 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


upon the descriptions; that of the Lady of the Lake, 
upon the incidents. “ The muse of Scott,” says F. 
Schlegel, “ lives only in the reminiscences of the old songs 
of Scotland; his verse is, as it were, a mosaic compound of 
detached fragments of Romantic legend and early chivalry, 
adapted to Scottish customs, and knit together with 
wondrous skill and care.” 

During the period in which his principal poems appeared, 
Scott was also employed in editing The Works of Dry den, 
to which he prefixed a Life of the author; Lord Somers ’ 
Tracts; The Works of Jonathan Swift, and several other 
less voluminous writers. In 1814, he turned his thoughts 
more particularly to prose, and gave to the world, under 
the title of Waverhy, the first of that wonderful series of 
novels, which created a new era in the history of prose 
fiction. The subsequent novels came out in the following 
order: in 1815, Guy Manner ing; in 1816, The Antiquary, 
and Tales of my Landlord, consisting of The Black 
Dwarf and Old Mortality; in 1818, Bob Boy and a 
second series of Tales of my Landlord, consisting of The 
Heart of Mid-Lothian ; in 1819, the third series of Tales 
of my Landlord, consisting of Brule of Lammermoor, 
and the Legend of Montrose; in 1820, Icanhoe, The 
Monastery, and The Abbot; in 1821, Kenilworth; in 
1822, The Pirate, and the Fortunes of Nigel; in 1823, 
Quentin Durward, and Peveril of the Peak; in 1824, 
St. Bonan's Well, and Bedgaunllet; in 1825, Tales of the 
Crusaders ; in 1826, Woodstock ; in 1827, Chronicles of 
Canongale, First Series; in 1828, Chronicles of Canon- 
gate, Second Series; in 1829, Anne of Geierstein; and 
in 1831, a fourth series of Tales of my Landlord. These 
works, rapidly as they were produced, not onlyjnrere the 
fruits of his unaided genius, but the original manuscripts 
were entirely written with his own hand, excepting those 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


317 


of 1S18 and 1819, when his illness obliged him to use an 
amanuensis. The characteristics which placed Scott in the 
front rank of writers of fiction, are beauty and richness of 
conception, vigor of execution, a nice discrimination of 
character, a bold coloring of historic scenes, and a bound¬ 
less acquired knowledge. The immense variety of char¬ 
acters to be found in these novels, has caused them to be 
compared with the dramas of Shakspeare. “ It is due to 
Scott to acknowledge,” says Angus, “that by his tales he 
displaced much of the trash under which the shelves of old 
circulating libraries groaned, sweeping away not only the 
fantastic romances, but novels of questionable moral ten¬ 
dency which succeeded these romances, and which were 
doing much to undermine the principles of readers of both 
sexes and of every age.” 

“ But, great as are the literary merits of his novels, we 
cannot think,” says Cleveland, “that they leave upon either 
the mind or the heart altogether such impressions as we 
could wish.” There is reason to apprehend that a revolu¬ 
tion in novel literature is going on, and that the incessant 
reading of novels is creating a morbid appetite for some¬ 
thing more exciting than what a just and pure imagination 
would demand. 

In 1827, appeared his Life of Napoleon , a work of 
partial views, and executed with too little care and research 
to add to the brilliant reputation of the author. The first, 
second, and third series of Tales of a Grandfather , illus¬ 
trative of events in Scottish history, Letters on Demo - 
nology, and The History of Scotland , close the long list 
of the works of this prolific writer. 

In 1831, a second stroke of paralysis rendered it neces¬ 
sary for his family to divert him from the incessant literary 
labor which his mind, though shattered by disease, still 
continued to perform. After visiting Malta, Naples, and 
27* 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


318 

ultimately Rome, he returned home to die. Helpless, 
unconscious, and patient, he lingered on some little time, 
at Abbotsford; and at length breathed his last in the 
presence of all his children, in September 1832. “ The 

last scenes of his life—Lockhart, so he himself has de¬ 
scribed it, reading to him out of the only book a dying 
man cares to hear—are very moving and suggestive.'’ * 

Hymn to the Virgin. 

Are Maria! maiden mild ! 

Listen to a maiden’s prayer ! 

Thou canst hear though from the wild, 

Thou canst save amid despair. 

Safe may we sleep beneath thy care, 

Though banished /outcast, and reviled— 

Maiden ! hear a maiden’s prayer ! 

Mother, hear a suppliant child! 

Are Maria l 

Ave Maria! undefiled ! 

The flinty couch we now must share, 

Shall seem with down of eider piled, 

If thy protection hover there. 

The murky cavern’s heavy air 

Shall breathe of balm, if thou hast smiled ; 

Then, Maiden ! hear a maiden’s prayer ; 

Mother, list a suppliant child ! 

Ave Maria! 

Ave Maria! Stainless styled ! 

Foul demons of the earth and air, 

From this their wonted haunt exiled, 

Shall flee before thy presence fair. 

AVe bow us to our lot of care, 

Beneath thy guidance reconciled ; 

Hear for a maid a maiden’s prayer, 

And for a father hear a child! 

Ave Maria! 


* Angus. 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


319 


Knighthood in the Lists. 

From Ivanhoe . 

At length, as the music of the challengers concluded one of 
those long and high flourishes with which they had broken the 
silence of the lists, it was answered by a solitary trumpet, which 
breathed a note of defiance, from the northern extremity. All 
eyes were turned to see the new champion which these sounds 
announced, and no sooner were the barriers opened than he paced 
into the lists. As far as could be judged of a man sheathed in 
armor, the new adventurer did not greatly exceed the middle 
size, and seemed to be rather slender than strongly made. His 
suit of armor was formed of steel, richly inlaid with gold; and 
the device on his shield was a young oak-tree pulled up by the 
roots, with the single word ‘Disinherited.’ He was mounted 
on a gallant black horse, and as he passed through the lists, he 
gracefully saluted the prince and the ladies, by lowering his 
lance. The dexterity with which he managed his steed, and 
something of youthful grace which he displayed in his manner, 
won the favor of the multitude, which some of the lower classes 
expressed by calling out, “ Touch Ralph de Yipont’s shield, touch 
the Hospitaller’s shield; he has the least sure seat; he is your 
cheapest bargain. * 

The champion moving onward amid the well-meant hints, 
ascended the platform by the sloping alley which led to it from 
the lists, and, to the astonishment of all present, riding straight 
up to the central pavilion, struck with the sharp end of his spear 
the shield of Brian de Bois-Guilbert, until it rang again. All 
stood astonished at his presumption, but none more so than the 
redoubted knight whom he had thus defied to mortal combat, and 
who, little expecting so rude a challenge, was standing oarelessly 
at the door of his pavilion. 

“Have you confessed yourself, brother,” said the Templar, 
Guilbert, “ and have you heard mass this morning, that you peril 


* The challenge to combat was given, by touching the shield of the knight 
whom the challenger wished to encounter. The challenge to a contest with 
headless or blunt lances was given by touching the shield gently with the 
reversed spear, while a blow with the point denoted a challenge to mortal 
conflict. 


/ 



320 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


your life so frankly?” “Iam fitter to meet death than thou 
art,” answered the Disinherited Knight; for by this name the 
stranger had recorded himself in the book of the tourney. “ Then 
take your place in the lists,” said De Bois-Guilbert, “and look 
your last upon the sun; for this night thou shalt sleep in para¬ 
dise.” “ Gramercy * for thy courtesy,” replied the Disinherited 
Knight, “and to requite it, I advise thee to take a fresh horse, 
and a new lance, for, by my honor, you will need both.” 

Having expressed himself thus confidently, he reined his 
horse backward down the slope which he had ascended, and 
compelled him in the same manner to move backward through 
the lists, till he reached the northern extremity, where he 
remained stationary, in expectation of his antagonist. This feat 
of horsemanship again attracted the applause of the multitude. 

However incensed at his adversary for the precaution which 
he recommended, the Templar did not neglect his advice; for his 
honor was too nearly concerned to permit his neglecting any 
means which might insure victory over his presumptuous oppo¬ 
nent. He changed his horse for a proved and fresh one of great 
strength and spirit. He chose a new and tough spear, lest the 
wood of the former might have been strained in the previous 
encounters he had sustained. Lastly, he laid aside his shield, 
which had received some little damage, and received another 
from his squires. 

"When the two champions stood opposed to each other at the 
two extremities of the lists, the public expectation was strained 
to the highest pitch. Few augured the possibility that the 
encounter could terminate well for the Disinherited Knight, yet 
his courage and gallantry secured the general good wishes of the 
spectators. 

The trumpets had no sooner given the signal, than the cham¬ 
pions vanished from their posts with the speed of lightning, and 
closed in the centre of the lists with the shock of a thunderbolt. 
The lances hurst into shivers up to the very grasp, and it seemed 
at the moment, that both knights had fallen, for the shock had 
made each horse recoil backward upon its haunches. The address 
of the riders recovered their steeds by the use of the bridle and 
spur ; and having glared on each other, for an instant, with eyes 


* Many thanks. 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


321 


that seemed to flash fire through the bars of their visors, each 
retired to the extremity of the lists, and received a fresh lance 
from the attendants. 

A loud shout from the spectators, waving of scarfs and hand¬ 
kerchiefs, and general acclamations, attested the interest taken in 
the encounter. But no sooner had the knights resumed their 
station, than the clamor of applause was hushed into a silence 
so deep and so dead, that it seemed the multitude were afraid to 
breathe. 

A few minutes' pause having been allowed, that the combatants 
and their horses might recover breath, the trumpets again sounded 
the onset. The champions a second time sprung from their sta¬ 
tions, and met in the centre of the lists, with the same speed, the 
same dexterity, the same violence, but not the same equal fortune 
as before. 

In this second encounter, the Templar aimed at the centre of 
his antagonist’s shield, and struck it so fairly and forcibly, that 
his spear went to shivers, and the Disinherited Knight reeled in 
his saddle. On the other hand, the champion had, in the begin¬ 
ning of his career, directed the point of his lance toward Bois- 
Guilbert’s shield ; but changing his aim almost in the moment of 
encounter, he addressed to the helmet, a mark more difficult to 
hit, but which, if attained, rendered the shock more irresistible. 
Pair and true he hit the Templar on the visor, where his lance’s 
point kept hold of the bars. Yet even at this disadvantage, Bois- 
Guilbcrt sustained his high reputation ; and had not the girths of 
his saddle burst, he might not have been unhorsed. As it chanced, 
however, saddle, horse, and man, rolled on the ground under a 
cloud of dust. 

To extricate himself from the stirrups and fallen steed, was to 
the Templar scarce the work of a moment; and stung with mad¬ 
ness, both at his disgrace and the acclamations by which it was 
hailed by the spectators, he drew his sword, and waived it in 
defiance of his conqueror. The Disinherited Knight sprung from 
his steed, and also unsheathed his sword. The marshals of the 
field, however, spurred their horses between them, and reminded 
them, that the laws of the tournament did not, on the present 
occasion, permit this species of encounter, but that to the Disin¬ 
herited Knight the meed of victory was fairly and honorably 
awarded. 


322 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


On Novels, and Novel-Reading. 

The Novel is a fictitious history of a series of surprising 
and entertaining events in common life, wherein the rules 
of probability are, or ought to be, strictly observed. It 
differs from the romance, the interest of which turns upon 
marvellous and uncommon incidents. The chief merit and 
excellence of the novel consist in drawing character with 
delicacy, in exquisite refinement of thought, and in great 
penetration into human nature. In this new field of litera¬ 
ture Defoe led the way. His Robinson Crusoe, the first 
prose fiction, met with extraordinary success. The excel¬ 
lence of Defoe’s novels is a wonderful naturalness in the 
invention and relation of incidents. Richardson, the 
originator of the novel of high life, is noted for pathos and 
passion. Fielding is unrivalled for humor, satire, freshness, 
and skill, in the exhibition of genuine human nature without 
romance. The charm of Smollett’s writings consists in 
their broad humor and comic incidents. Sterne has shown 
incomparable humor in his Tristram Shandy and his 
Sentimental Journey, though he borrowed much from 
Rabelais. But the moral tendency of most of these novels 
is bad, and they contain passages without number of need¬ 
less offensive coarseness. These early writers have had 
many imitators, whose works, since the publication of 
Waverley in 1814, are counted by thousands. Whilst but 
one new novel was published every fortnight in 1825, one 
or more now appear every week, if not every day. Without 
entering upon the classification of the various kinds of 
novels, we introduce some remarks on the effects of novel¬ 
reading, even when confined to such as are of the best 
kind. Speaking of the didactic or moral novel, Angus 
says: “So far as novels are professedly moral, they must 
be tested by a Christian standard. We must censure the 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 323 

false principles it condemns; must judge of human nature 
and human improvement, of the proper motives of action, 
of good and evil, of the true consolations in misery, old 
age, and death, as it judges. Nor will our morality differ 
materially from that of the heathen, except perhaps in 
respect to benevolence and humanity, if it be not modified 
by whatever in the Christian faith is intended to exercise 
this modifying power. So tested, it must be confessed that 
many of the class of moral novels are lamentably imperfect. 
They omit or exclude from their moral teaching the leav¬ 
ening influence of Christian truth. Unchristian motives 
are not uncommon ; and a heroic fortitude or peaceful 
appearance is assigned to men in dying, neither true to 
facts nor just to Christianity. If these remarks are not 
applicable to all novels of this class; they are applicable 
to some of the most successful of them. It is this defi¬ 
ciency that led Robert Hall to speak of some of Miss 
Edgeworth’s moral tales, as among the most mischievous, 
morally , of any he ever read. She hdrself, indeed, is said 
to have defended them by stating that she took for granted 
the existence of the truths on which he insisted. But this 
plea is not satisfactory. Either her good characters who 
die in peace are Christians or not. If they are not, they 
cease to be our models: if they are, then her description 
leaves out of view the very principles to which they owed 
their goodness. Either the character is defective, or the 
history is untrue. The remedy of these evils, it is not easy 
to find. They pervade our Literature —not our novels 
only; they meet us in daily life.” Further on, the same 
author, summing up his remarks on novel-reading in gen¬ 
eral, concludes by these words: “ Mentally, habitual novel¬ 
reading is destructive of real vigor; and morally , it is 
destructive of real kindness.” 


324 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


No less judicious than the preceding are the following 
considerations of the American Cyclopaedia: 

11 From a view of some of the best authors in the highest 
class of novel writers, it will be abundantly evident that 
the perusal of these works is more calculated and apt to 
be prejudicial than advantageous, unless the mind is pre¬ 
viously fortified with sound principles, and the passions and 
feelings are completely under the mastery of the judgment. 
Even then their claim must rest rather on the interest 
which they excite, than on the instruction which they 
afford. Whoever draws his opinions of the world, of the 
manners, characters, and pursuits of mankind from novels, 
will enter on real life to great disadvantage ; the personages 
of novels, especially of those which teem from the modern 
press, either bear no resemblance to mankind, or that re¬ 
semblance consists in such a narrow peculiarity of feature, 
as renders it rather an individual than a general picture. 
But the strongest and most undoubted objection to novels, 
arises from the effects which the perusal of them produces 
on the mental faculties and the literary taste; during it, 
the mind is nearly passive; a lounging, desultory habit of 
reading is acquired, so that when works are to be perused 
which require close and regular attention, and a judgment 
constantly on the alert to follow and comprehend the 
author’s observations and arguments, the mind is unequal 
to the task. The literary taste will suffer equally, except 
the reading be confined to a very few select novels: unless, 
therefore, the habits of close, active, and vigorous attention, 
are of a very powerful and predominating nature, and the 
taste has been modelled to correctness and purity by long 
and regular discipline, novels ought to be avoided.” * 


* Rees’ Cycl., Article: Novels. 



TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


325 


GEORGE CRABBE, 1754-1832. 

George Crabbe, whom Byron styles ‘Nature’s sternest 
painter, yet the best,’ was born in 1754, at Aldborough, a 
coast-town in Suffolk, and ‘cradled among the sons of the 
ocean,’ a daily witness of the rude manners and unbridled 
passions of fishermen, poachers, and smugglers. After 
receiving an education superior to what could have been 
expected in his circumstances, he made an unsuccessful 
attempt to establish himself as a country apothecary ; and, 
finding himself on the brink of ruin, he resolved to abandon 
his profession, and seek his fortune as a literary adventurer, 
He arrived in London in 1780, ‘with a box of clothes, a 
case of surgical instruments, and three pounds in his 
pocket.’ His little stock of money being soon spent, he 
was driven to the necessity of soliciting temporary assis¬ 
tance, and was fortunate enough to attract the notice of 
the celebrated Edmund Burke. With the sympathy and 
encouragement of this great man he brought out his first 
successful poem, The Library , and three years later The 
Village, a work revised and praised by both Burke and 
Johnson, and which at once stamped him as one of the 
most energetic and inventive poets of his age. If in his 
poems he has been accused, not without a show of justice, 
of dwelling too exclusively on what is odious and repulsive, 
and giving too gloomy and discouraging a view of human 
society ; this fault is more than redeemed by the admirable 
instinct with which he has penetrated into the heart of 
man, and shown that its strength and weakness, its wisdom 
and folly, its majesty and degradation, are alike in all ranks 
and classes. Crabbe’s powers of minute descriptive paint¬ 
ing, and skill in setting vividly before us a scene or a char¬ 
acter which, at first sight, we would consider hopelessly 
unattractive, were never equalled in literature. In the 
28 


326 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


depicting of the fen, the marsh, the work-house, and the 
jail, as well as in his description of moral sufferings, he is 
no less striking than peculiar. 

The following is a list of his works not already men¬ 
tioned : The Pariah Register, said to be the most successful 
of his productions ; The Borough ; Tales in Verse ; lastly, 
The Tales of llie Hall. All these poems are written in 
the rhymed couplet of Pope. 

“The characteristic of Crabbe’s poetry,” says Angus, 
“is its truthfulness. Previous pictures of rural life he 
knew to be largely untrue: he made it therefore his busi¬ 
ness to describe the parish as he found it. The whole 
picture is dark and humiliating; yet, in many of his 
sketches, there are scenes as bright and glowing as any¬ 
thing in Scott. With his rough energy of description, his 
manly style of versification, arid the intense interest of 
many of his stories, there is nothing wanting in his poems 
but more humor and more kindly human feeling to make 
them universally popular.” 

Crabbe lived honored and respected to a great age, and 
died in 1832 at Trcnvbridge, w r here he had spent the last 
eighteen years of his life. 

The English Parish Workhouse. 

Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor, 

Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; 

There, where the putrid vapors flagging play, 

And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; 

There children dwell who know no parents’ care: 

Parents, who know no children’s love, dwell there: 
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, 

Forsaken wives and mothers never wed, 

Dejected widows with unheeded tears, 

And crippled age with more than childhood-fears; 

The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they 1 
The moping idiot and the madman gay. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


327 


Here too the sick their final doom receive, 

Here brought amid the scenes of grief to grieve, 
Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, 
Mixed with the clamors of the crowd below ; 

Here sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, 

And the cold charities of man to man : 

Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide, 

And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride j 
But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, 

And pride imbitters what it can’t deny. 

Such is that room which one rude beam divides, 
And naked rafters form the sloping sides; 

Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, 
And lath and mud are all that lie between ; 

Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patched, gives way 
To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day: 

Here on a matted flock, with dust o’erspread, 

The drooping wretch reclines his languid head; 

For him no hand the cordial cup applies, 

Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes; 

No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, 

Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile. 

History. 

Next History ranks; there full in front she lies, 

And every nation her dread tale supplies: 

Yet History has her doubts, and every age 
With sceptic queries marks the passing page; 
Records of old nor later date are clear, 

Too distant those, and these are placed too near; 
There time conceals the objects from our view, 

Here our own passions and a writer’s too: 

Yet in these volumes, see how states arose, 

Guarded by virtue from surrounding foes ! 

Their virtue lost, and of their triumph vain, 

Lo ! how they sunk to slavery again ! 

Satiate with power, of fame and wealth possess’d, 

A nation grows too glorious to be blest; 

Conspicuous made, she stands the mark of all 
And foes join foes to triumph in her fall. 



328 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


S. TAYLOR COLERIDGE, 1772-1834. 

S. Taylor Coleridge, a profound thinker and rich imag¬ 
inative poet, was born at Otterey St. Mary, and received the 
principal part of his education at Christ’s Hospital where 
he became head-scholar. He describes himself as being 
from eight to fourteen ‘ a playless day-dreamer, a helluo 
librorum; ’ and in this instance ‘the child was father of 
the man: ’ for such was Coleridge to the end of his life. 
He had no ambition; and, had not his head master Bowyer 
interfered, he would have apprenticed himself to a shoe¬ 
maker who lived near the school. He wanted concentra¬ 
tion and steadiness of purpose to avail himself sufficiently 
of his intellectual riches. In magnificent alternations of 
hope and despair, and in discoursing on poetry and phi¬ 
losophy, sometimes committing a golden thought to the 
blank leaf of a book, or to a private letter, but generally 
content with oral communication, the poet’s time glided 
past. “ He was all his days,” says Shaw, “from his youth 
to his death, laboring, meditating, projecting; and yet all 
that he has left us bears a painful character of fragmen¬ 
tariness and imperfection. During the greater part of 
his life too, he was exceedingly poor; and his perpetual 
struggles to obtain bread by his pen obliged him, in many 
instances, to engage in tasks for which his peculiar mental 
constitution was completely unfit: as, for example, the 
occupation of a political journalist.” He began life as 
a Unitarian and republican; but, ultimately, became an 
adherent to the doctrines of the Anglican church, and an 
enthusiastic defender of monarchical institutions. Of the 
poems by which Coleridge is best known, the most univer¬ 
sally read is The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, a wild, 
mystical narrative, possessing a melody strange and un¬ 
earthly, and an air of antiquity in admirable harmony with 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


329 


the spectral character of the events. He translated the 
second and third parts of Schiller’s Wallenstein with the 
exactness of a scholar, ajid the kindred inspiration of a 
poet. His Ode to Mont Blanc is one of the sublimest pro¬ 
ductions of the kind in the English language. The poem 
Ghristabel is a wild mysterious story, probably not without 
meaning, though it is hard to discover it. Like his odes, 
like every thing that Coleridge ever wrote, it is exquisitely 
versified. His language puts on every form, expresses 
every sound: our rough, pithy English in his verse breathes 
all sounds, alt melodies:— 

u And now ’tis like all instruments, 

Now like a lonely flute, 

And now it is an Angel’s song, 

That makes the heaven’s be mute.”* 

Most of his prose works were published between the 
years 1817 and 1825. They are the two Lay sermons; 
the Biographia Liter aria; The Friend, a literary peri¬ 
odical which extended only to twenty-seven numbers; and 
Aids to Reflection. He lived for some time at Keswick 
in Cumberland near the Lakes, in which region Words¬ 
worth and Southey resided, and hence the appellation of 
Lake poets given to the three distinguished friends. As 
a conversationist, Coleridge enjoyed a remarkable repu¬ 
tation. He loved to keep the field entirely to himself; 
and, hour after hour, if the auditors could spare time, 
would he pour forth ‘things new and old,’ illustrated by 
a boundless range of scientific knowledge, brilliancy, and 
exquisite nicety of illustration, deep and ready reasoning’, 
immensity of bookish lore, dramatic story, joke and pun. 

In his Lectures on ShaJcspeare, he did more to give an 
idea of the breadth and grasp of the genius of that poet, 


28* 


♦Outlines of Eng. Lit. 



330 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


than any other Englishman of his time. He planned 
several great works which were never committed to paper. 
Indeed an excessive use of opium, added to a native want 
of energy, produced an indolent habit and lack of applica¬ 
tion, which were fatal to the prosecution of any extensive 
project. 

Of Coleridge’s poetry in its most matured form and in 
jts best specimens, the most distinguishing characteristics 
are vividness of imagination and subtlety of thought, com¬ 
bined with unrivalled beauty and expressiveness of diction, 
and the most exquisite melody of verse. The fault of his 
verse is the same that belongs to Spenser’s; it is too purely 
and unalloyedly poetical. Some of his minor poems espe¬ 
cially, for the richness of their coloring combined with the 
most perfect finish, can be compared only to the flowers 
which spring up into loveliness at the touch of nature. 
The words, the rhyme, the whole flow of the music, seem 
to be not so much the mere expression or sign of the 
thought as its blossoming or irradiation. 

After a wandering life, residing in the houses of friends, 
alternately lecturing and contributing to periodicals, Cole¬ 
ridge settled in 1816 with Mr. Gilman, a surgeon, at 
Iiighgate, and remained in his family until his death, 
which occurred in 1834. 


Epitaph of Coleridge, composed by himself. 

Stop, Christian passer-by ! Stop, Child of God ! 

And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod 
A poet lies-, or that which once seemed he; 

0 lift a thought in prayer for S. T. C ! 

That he who many a year with toil of breath 
Found death in life, may here find life in death ! 

Mercy, for praise—to be forgiven, for Fame— 

He asked, and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


331 


A Calm. 

From The Ancient Mariner. 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 

The furrow followed free; 

We were the first that ever burst 
Into that silent sea. 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 

’Twas sad as sad could be ; 

And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea ! 

• 

All in a hot and copper sky, 

The bloody sun, at noon, 

Right up above the mast did stand, 

No bigger than the moon. * 

Day after day, day after day, 

We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 

As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water everywhere, 

And all the boards did shrink ; 

Water, water everywhere, 

Nor any drop to drink. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night: 

The water, like a witch's oils, 

Burnt green, and blue, and white. 

Advantage of Method. 

From The Friend. 

What is that which first strikes us, and strikes us at once, in a 
man of education ; and which, among educated men, so instantly 
distinguishes the man of superior mind, that (as was observed 
with eminent propriety of the late Edmund Burke) ‘ w r e cannoi 


332 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


stand under the same archway during a shower of rain without 
finding him out?’ Not the weight or novelty of his remarks ; 
not any unusual interest of facts communicated by him; for we 
may suppose both the one and the other precluded by the short¬ 
ness of our intercourse, and the triviality of the subjects. The 
difference will be impressed and felt, though the conversation 
should be confined to the state of the weather or the pavement. 
Still less will it arise from any peculiarity in his words and 
phrases; for if he be, as we now assume, a we^-educated man, 
as well as a man of superior powers, he will not fail to follow 
the golden rule of Julius Cassar, and, unless where new things 
necessitate new terms, he will avoid an unusual word as a rock. 
It must have been among the earliest lessons of his youth that 
the breach of this precept, at all times hazardous, becomes 
ridiculous in the topics of ordinary conversation. There remains 
but one other point of distinction possible ; and this must be, and 
in fact is, the true cause of the impression made on us. It is the 
unpremeditated and evidently habitual arrangement of his words, 
grounded on the habit of foreseeing, in each integral part, or 
(more plainly) in every sentence, the whole that he then intends 
to communicate. However irregular and desultory his talk, 
there is method in the fragments. 

Listen, on the other hand, to an ignorant man, though perhaps 
shrewd and able in his particular calling ; whether he be describ¬ 
ing or relating. We immediately perceive that his memory 
alone is called into action, and that the objects and events recur 
in the narration in the same order, and with the same accompani¬ 
ments, however accidental or impertinent, as they had first 
occurred to the narrator. The necessity of taking breath, the 
efforts of recollection, and the abrupt rectification of its failures, 
produce all his pauses, and, with exception of the ‘ and then,’ 
the ‘ and there,’ and the still less significant ‘ and so,’ they con¬ 
stitute likewise all his connections. Our discussion, however, is 
confined to method, as employed in the formation of the under¬ 
standing and in the construction of science and. literature. It 
would indeed be superfluous to attempt a proof of its importance 
in the business and economy of active or domestic life. From 
the cotter’s hearth or the workshop of the artisan, to the palace 
or the arsenal, the first merit, that which admits neither substi¬ 
tute nor equivalent, is, that everything is in its place. Where 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


333 


this charm is wanting, every other merit either loses its name or 
becomes an additional ground of accusation and regret. Of one 
, by whom it is eminently possessed, we say proverbially he is 
like clock-work. The resemblance extends beyond the point of 
regularity, and yet falls short of the truth. Both do, indeed, at 
! once divide and announce the silent and otherwise indistinguish¬ 
able lapse of time. But the man of methodical industry and 
honourable pursuits does more: ho realises its ideal divisions, 
and gives a character and individuality to its moments. If the 
: idle are described as killing time, he may be justly said to call it 
' into life and moral being, while he makes it the distinct object 
not only of the consciousness, but of the conscience. He organises 
the hours, and gives them a soul ; and that, the very essence of 
i which is to fleet away, and evermore to have bee?i, he takes up 
into his own permanence, and communicates to it the imperish¬ 
ableness of a spiritual nature. Of the good and faithful servant 
whose energies, thus directed, are thus methodised, it is less truly 
affirmed that he lives in time than that time lives in him. His 
! days, months, and years, as the stops and punctual marks in the 
! records of duties performed, will survive the wreck of worlds, 
and remain extant when Time itself shall be no more. 

ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1774-1843. 

Robert Southey, one of the most voluminous and learned 
authors of this period—a poet, scholar, antiquary, critic, 
and historian, was born at Bristol in 1774. He wrote 
even more than Scott, and yet he is said to have burned 
more verses between his twentieth and thirtieth year than 
he published during his whole life. His time was entirely 
devoted to literature. Every day and hour had its appro¬ 
priate and select task; his library was his world, within 
which he was content to range; and his books were his 
most cherished and constant companions: 

The mighty minds of old : 

My never-failing friends are they, 

With whom I converse night and day. 







334 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Southey began life as a violent partisan of the principles 
of the French Revolution; and in the ridiculous drama of 
Wat Tyler and the extravagant epic of Joan of Arc , he 
devoted all his powers to the support of extreme liberal 
opinions. He and his friends, Lovell and Coleridge, had 
even formed a plan of settling on the Susquehanna river 
and establishing a community ( Pantisocracy ) in which all 
things should be common ; but they had not money enough 
to put their plan into execution. Southey soon, however, 
abandoned his early principles and became one of the most 
thorough-going supporters of monarchical and conservative 
doctrines. In 1801 was published his second epic, Tlialaba, 
the Destroyer, a tale of Arabian enchantment, wild, ex¬ 
travagant, unearthly in its subject, and full of supernatural 
machinery. The hero fights with demons and enchanters ; 
but at last overthrows the dominion of powers of evil in 
the Domdaniel Cavern, ‘under the roots of the ocean . 1 
The poem is in blank verse of very irregular length, but of 
great music. In 1805 was published Macloc, an epic poem 
inferior to its predecessors. Madoc is a Welsh prince of 
the twelfth century, who is represented as making a dis¬ 
covery of the Western World. His contests with the 
Mexicans, and his conversion of the people from their 
idolatry, form the chief theme. As a whole, the poem is 
languid and unimpressive. 

The Curse of Kehama, his greatest poetical work, 
appeared in 1810. It is a poem of the same class and 
structure as Thalaba, but written in rhyme. The story is 
founded on Hindoo mythology, and the scene is laid suc¬ 
cessively in the terrestrial paradise, under the sea, in the 
heaven of heavens, and in hell. “ Scenery and costume, 
situations and sentiments, are alike in keeping with the 
Oriental nature of the work. But, for all its splendor and 
all its correctness as a work of art, it is so far removed 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 335 

from the world in which our sympathies lie, that few can 
fully appreciate this noble poem, and perhaps none can 
return to it with never-wearied love as to a play of Shaks- 
peare.”* Kehama was followed at an interval of four 
years by Roderic, Last of the Goths, a poem in blank 
verse founded on the punishment and the repentance of the 
last Gothic king of Spain. Here also there are some 
splendid descriptive passages and several scenes of tender¬ 
ness and pathos; but, in general, the poem wants reality 
and human interest, and the tone of it is too uniformly 
ecstatic and agonizing. 

The poems of Southey are but a small portion of his 
writings. He wrote innumerable articles in Reviews, and 
filled volumes with the result of his reading and thoughts 
on moral philosophy, politics, and literature. The most 
considerable of his historical works are the History of 
Brazil, and the History of the feninsular War. 
“Though they both,” says Alison, “possess merits of a 
very high order and abound in passages of great descriptive 
beauty, they have never obtained any high reputation, and 
are now well-nigh forgotten. He had not the patience of 
research and calmness of judgment indispensable for a 
trustworthy historian.” 

In some of his works, as The Doctor, there is a humor 
that reminds the reader of Swift; and all are remarkable 
for the purity and vigor of their English. His Life of 
Nelson, which Macaulay declares ‘ the most perfect and 
the most delightful of his works,’ is perhaps the most 
likely to retain its place as an English classic. The Book 
of the Church, according to the same authority, ‘contains 
some stories very prettily told. The rest is mere rubbish.’ 
In his l ives of the British Admirals, Life of Wesley, of 


♦Collier’s Hist, of Eng Lit. 





336 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


j Bunyan, and of Gowper, we find the same admirable art 
of clear, vigorous English. But in several of these, as 
well as in his innumerable critical and historical essays, he 
displays a measure of prejudice and of temper not cred¬ 
itable to his judicial character as a critic, or to his many 
excellent qualities as a writer and as a man. “ In all 
those works,” says Macaulay, “in which Mr. Southey has 
completely abandoned narrative, and undertaken to argue 
moral and political questions, his failure has been complete 
and ignominious. On such occasions his writings are 
rescued from utter contempt and derision solely by the 
beauty and the purity of the English.” 

At length, the strong spirit of Southey was bowed by 
the excess of mental labor. For three years before his 
death, his mind was so far gone that he was not able to 
recognize those who were his companions from his youth, 
lie died in 1834, at his residence in the Lake country. 

Plea of an English Pauper Woman. 

Ay, Idleness ! the rich folks nevef fail 
To find some reason why the poor deserve 
Their miseries !—Is it Idleness, I pray you, 

That brings the fever or the ague fit? 

That makes the sick one’s sickly appetite 
Turn at the dry bread and potato meal ? 

Is it idleness that makes small wages fail 
For growing wants ? Six years ago, these bells 
Rung on my wedding-day, and I was told 
What I might look for,—but I did not heed 
Good counsel. I had lived in service, Sir, 

Knew never what it was to want a meal: 

Laid down without one thought to keep me sleepless, 

Or trouble me in sleep ; had for a Sunday 
My linen gown, and, when the pedlar came 
Could buy me a new ribbon. And my husband, 

A toward ly young man and well to do, 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


337 


He had his silver buckles and his watch ; 

There was not in the village one who looked 
Sprucer on holidays. We married, Sir, 

And we had children ; but as wants increased, 

Wages did not. The silver buckles went, 

So went the watch ; and when the holiday coat 
Was worn to work, no new one in its place. 

For me—you see my rags! but I deserve them, 

For wilfully, like this new married pair, 

I went to my undoing.—A blessed prospect, 

To slave where there is strength, in age the workhouse, 
A parish shell at last, and the little bell 
Tolled hastily for a pauper’s funeral! 


From the conclusion of Joan of Arc. 

. . . . “ The missioned Maid 

Then placed on Charles’s brow the crown of France, 
And, back retiring, gazed upon the king 
One moment, quickly scanning all the past, 

Till in a tumult of wild wonderment 
She wept aloud. The assembled multitude 
In awful stillness witnessed ; then, at once, 

As with a tempest-rushing noise of winds, 

Lifted their mingled clamors. Now the maid 
Stood as prepared to speak, and waved her hand, 
And instant silence followed. 

“ King of France !” 

She cried, “ at Chinon, when my gifted eye 
Knew thee disguised, what inwardly the spirit 
Prompted, I promised, with the sword of God, 

To drive from Orleans far the English wolves, 

And crown thee in the rescued walls of Kheims. 

All is accomplish’d ; I have here this day 
Fulfill’d my mission, and anointed thee 
King over this great nation. Of this charge, 

Or well perform’d or carelessly, that God 

Of Whom thou holdest thine authority 

Will take account; from Him all power derives. 

29 


338 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Tliy duty is to fear the Lord, and rule, 

According to His word and to the laws, 

The people thus committed to thy charge : 

Theirs is to fear Him and to honor Thee, 

And with that fear and honor to obey 
In all things lawful; both being thus alike 
By duty bound, alike restricted both 
From wilful license.” .... 

THOMAS CAMPBELL, 1777-1844. 

Thomas Campbell, the hard of Hope, and one of Eng¬ 
land’s greatest lyric poets, was born in the city of Glasgow, 
in 1777. He was educated at the University of that city, 
where he was distinguished for his proficiency in classical 
studies. In 1799, he published the Pleasures of Hope, 
of which four editions were called for within a year. In 
this youthful production, harmony of versification, a pol¬ 
ished and graceful diction, and an accurate finish, are 
united with an ardent poetical sensibility. The passage 
concerning the partition of Poland, is full of the lyric fire 
which afterwards shone forth so brilliantly in Ye Mariners 
of England , Hohenlinden, the Battle of the Baltic, and 
the Exile of Erin. The last of these, so well known and 
appreciated in this country, was composed at Hamburg, 
and owes its origin to the poet’s meeting with some politi¬ 
cal exiles, who had been concerned in what is called the 
Irish Kebellion. 

From the Monastery of St. Jacob, Campbell witnessed 
the bloody battle of Hohenlinden, December 3d, 1800. 
This dreadful spectacle he has commemorated in one of the 
grandest battle-pieces in miniature that were ever drawn. 
In a few verses, flowing like a choral melody, he brings 
before us the silent midnight scene of engagement wrapt 
in the snows of winter, the sudden arming for battle, the 


TEIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


339 


press and shout of charging squadrons, the flashing of 
artillery, and the final scene of death : 

Few, few shall part, when many meet! 

The snow shall be their winding sheet; • 

And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre ! 

Returning home, he resided for upwards of a year at 
Edinburgh, where he wrote LochieVs Warning, which, it is 
said, Sir Walter Scott heard read, read once himself, and 
then recited entire from memory. In 1809 appeared Ger¬ 
trude of Wyoming, a Pennsylvania tale, and other poems 
which confirmed his poetical reputation. 

His lyrics are his finest pieces; but, in nearly all that 
he wrote, if we except an occasional heavy or feeble phrase, 
there is an ideal loveliness, a refinement of imagery, a 
concentrated power of expression, a depth of feeling, and 
a sensitiveness of nature, always charming. 

Among his writings in prose may be mentioned: Letters 
from the South, or a Poet's Residence in Algiers , con¬ 
taining interesting and picturesque sketches of Algiers and 
the adjacent districts; The Life and Times of Petrarch, 
The Life of Mrs. Siddons, Frederick the Great, his 
Court and Times, 4 vol., 8vo, considered as standard 
works of reference. His Specimens of the British Poets, 
with biographical and critical notes, and an Essay on 
English Poetry, were published in 1819. The selections, 
however, are not the best ‘ specimens ’ of the authors. 

From 1810 to 1820, he edited The New Monthly Maga¬ 
zine, to which he contributed many beautiful poems. Of 
these, perhaps The Last Man has been the most admired. 

In 1843, Campbell visited Boulogne for the benefit of 
his health, and resided there until his death, which occurred 
in June, 1844. He was interred in Westminster Abbey. 


340 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Ye Mariners of England: a Naval Ode. 

Ye Mariners of England! 

That guard our native seas; 

•Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 
The battle and the breeze I 
Your glorious standard launch again 
To match another foe I 
And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy tempests blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy tempests blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 
Shall start from every wave!— 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 
And Ocean was their grave: 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 
Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy tempests blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy tempests blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwark, 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o’er the mountain waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak, 

She quells the floods below,— 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy tempests blow : 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy tempests blow. 

The meteor flag of England 
Shall yet terrific burn ; 

Till danger’s troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 


TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


341 


Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! 

Our song and feast shall flow 
To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Exile of Erin. 

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, 

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: 

For his country he sighed, When at twilight repairing 
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 

But the daystar attracted his eye’s sad devotion; 

For it rose in his own native isle of the ocean, 

Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, 

He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. 

Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger, 

The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; 

But I have no refuge from famine and danger, 

A home and a country remain not to me. 

Never again in the green sunny bovvers, 

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours 
Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, 

And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh! 

• 

Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, 

In dreams I revisit.thy sea-beaten shore ; 

But alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, 

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! 

O cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me 

In a mansion of peace—where no perils can chase me ? 

Never again shall my brothers embrace me? 

They died to defend me, or live to deplore! 

W r here is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood ? 

Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall ? 

Where is the mother that looked on my childhood ? 

And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all ? 

29 * 


342 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Oh ! my sacl heart! long abandoned by pleasure, 

Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure! 

Tears like the rain drop may fall without measure ; 

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. 

Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, 

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw, 

Erin! an exile bequeathes thee his blessing ! 

Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! 

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, 

Green be thy fields—sweetest isle of the ocean ! 

And thy harp striking bards sing aloud with devotion,— 
Erin mavournin ! Erin go bragh ! * 


SYDNEY SMITH, 1769-1845. 

Sydney Smith, well known as one of the most popular 
essayists of the celebrated Edinburgh Review, was Jborn at 
Woodford, near London, in 1769. He was the originator 
of the Review, and its first editor. Many of his contribu¬ 
tions were replete with a humor and satire so pungent as 
to excite public attention to an extraordinary degree. He 
was an exceedingly popular preacher, and his popularity 
led to his appointment as a lecturer on Belles-Lettres at 
the Royal Institution, where his prolusions were attended 
by ‘overflowing and fashionable audiences.’ When the 
‘No Popery’ cry drove the government of that day from 
the councils of the king; it was then that the most popular 
of Smith’s works made its appearance, namely his Letters 
of Peter Plymley , by means of which it has been asserted, 
though probably with some exaggeration, that he did more 
than any other individual for the relief of the Roman 
Catholics. These letters are written in the best spirit of 
controversy, they abound in the happiest illustrations ; and 


* Ireland my darling—Ireland forever. 



THE MODERN ENGLISH TEItlOD. 


343 


though light, lively, and sparkling, these qualities abate 
nothing of their logical force and downright common sense. 

Between 1804 and 1810, he delivered a course of lectures 
on Moral Philosophy at the Royal Institution in London, 
which were published after his death, and which have also 
contributed to his reputation. The conversational witti- 
cism$ reported of him would fill a volume: but his char¬ 
acter will be estimated on far higher grounds. 

Smith had little poetic fancy, but a prodigious fund of 
innate sagacity, a vast power of humorous illustration, 
and a clear perception of the practical bearing of every 
question. No other public writer was more successful than 
he in denouncing a political humbug or demolishing a 
literary pretender. He was on the whole an upright and 
benevolent man, and, as the world goes, a disinterested 
politician. He had opportunities of improving his fortune, 
which he nobly rejected ; and, having lived with unostenta¬ 
tious respectability, he died in ordinary circumstances. 

“ There is no man of this century whose works are richer 
in masculine sense, in earnest advocacy of what he deemed 
great principles, or in general fairness of judgment; while, 
for wit, shrewdness, and good Saxon English, they are 
unsurpassed, or, taking those qualities together, unri¬ 
valled.” * 

Not long before his death, he gave the following account 
of himself, in a letter to a correspondent of the New York 
American: “I am 74 years old; and, being a canon of 
St. Paul’s in London, and rector of a parish in the country, 
my time is equally divided between town and country. I 
am living amidst the best society in the metropolis; am at 
ease in my circumstances; in tolerable health; a mild 
whig; a tolerating churchman ; and much given to talking, 


♦Angus, Hand book of Eng. Lit. 




344 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


laughing, and noise. I dine with the rich in London, and 
physic the poor in the country ; passing from the sauces of 
Dives to the sores of Lazarus. I am, upon the whole, a 
happy man, have fouud the world an entertaining world, 
and am heartily thankful to Providence for the part allotted 
to me in it.” 

Smith died at his residence in London on the 21st of 
February, 1845. His collected works form three volumes. 


Wit and Humor. 

I wish, after all I have said about wit and humour, I could 
satisfy myself of their good effects upon the character and dispo¬ 
sition ; but I am convinced the probable tendency of both is, to 
corrupt the understanding and the heart. I am not speaking of 
wit where it is kept down by more serious qualities of mind, and 
thrown into the background of the picture; but where it stands 
out boldly and emphatically, and is evidently the master quality 
in any particular mind. Professed wits, though they are generally 
courted for the amusement they afford, are seldom respected for 
the qualities they possess. The habit of seeing things in a witty 
point of view, increases, and makes incursions from its own 
proper regions, upon principles and opinions which are ever held 
sacred by the wise and good. A witty man is a dramatic per¬ 
former : and in process of time, he can no more exist without ap¬ 
plause than he can exist without air ; if his audience be small, or if 
they are inattentive, or if a new wit defrauds him of any portion of 
his admiration, it is all over with him—he sickens, and is extin¬ 
guished. The applauses of the theatre on which he performs are 
so essential to him, that he must obtain them at the expense 
of decency, friendship, and good feeling. It must always be 
probable , too, that a mere wit is a person of light and frivolous 
understanding. His business is not to discover relations of ideas 
that are useful , and have a real influence upon life, but to discover 
the more trifling relations which are only amusing; he never 
looks at things with the naked eye of common sense, but is 
always gazing at the world through a Claude Lorraine glass,— 
discovering a thousand appearances which are created only by the 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


345 


instrument of inspection, and covering every object with factitious 
and unnatural colors. In short, the character of a mere wit it is 
impossible to consider as very amiable, very respectable, or very 
safe. So far the world, in judging of wit where it has swallowed 
up all other qualities, judge aright; but I doubt if they are 
sufficiently indulgent to this faculty where it exists in a lesser 
degree, and as one out of many other ingredients of the under¬ 
standing. There is an association in men's minds between 
dullness and wisdom, amusement and folly, which has a powerful 
influence in decision upon character, and is not overcome without 
considerable difficulty. The reason is, that the outward signs of 
a dull man and a wise man are the same, and so are the outward 
i signs of a frivolous man and a witty man ; and we are not to 
expect that the majority will be disposed to look to much more 
than the outward sign. I believe the fact to be, that wit is very 
seldom the only eminent quality which resides in the mind of any 
man ; it is commonly accompanied by many other talents of every 
description, and ought to bo considered as a strong evidence of a 
fertile and superior understanding. Almost all the great poets, 
orators, and statesmen of all times, have been witty. Csesar, 
Alexander, Aristotle, Descartes and Lord Bacon, were witty 
men ; so were Cicero, Shakspeare, Demosthenes, Boileau, Pope, 
Dryden, Fontenelle, Jonson, Waller, Cowley, Solon, Socrates, 
Dr. Johnson, and almost every man who has made a distinguished 
figure in the House of Commons. I have talked of the danger of 
wit; I do not mean by that to enter into commonplace declama¬ 
tion against faculties because they are dangerous ;—wit is danger¬ 
ous, eloquence is dangerous, a talent for observation is dangerous, 
every thing is dangerous that has efficacy and vigor for its 
characteristics; nothing is safe but mediocrity. The business is, 
in conducting the understanding well, to risk something ; to aim 
at uniting things that are commonly incompatible. The meaning 
of an extraordinary man is, that he is eight men, not one man ; 
that he has as much wit as if he had no sense, and as much sense 
as if he had no wit; that his conduct is as judicious as if he were 
the dullest of human beings, and his imagination as brilliant as 
if he were irretrievably ruined. But when wit is combined with 
sense and information ; when it is softened by benevolence, and 
restrained by strong principle; when it is in the hands of a man 
who can use it and despise it, who can be witty and something 








346 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


mucli better than witty, who loves honor, justice, decency, 
good-nature, morality, and religion ten thousand times better 
than wit;—wit is then a beautiful and delightful part of our 
nature. There is no more interesting spectacle than to see the 
effects of wit upon the different characters of men ; than to observe 
it expanding caution, relaxing dignity, unfreezing coldness,— 
teaching age, and care, and pain, to smile,—extorting reluctant 
gleams of pleasure from melancholy, and charming even the 
pangs of grief. It is pleasant to observe how it penetrates 
through the coldness and awkwardness of society, gradually 
bringing men nearer together, and, like the combined force of 
wine and oil, giving every man a glad heart and shining counte¬ 
nance. Genuine and innocent wit, like this, is surely the flavor 
of the mind 1 Man could direct his ways by plain reason, and 
support his life by tasteless food ; but God has given us wit, and 
flavor, and brightness, and laughter, and perfumes to enliven 
the days of man’s pilgrimage, and to ‘charm his pained steps 
over the burning marie.’ 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770-1850. 

William Wordsworth, a meditative and descriptive poet, 
the celebrated founder of what is called the Lake school of 
poetry, was born in 1710 in the county of Cumberland. 
His first attempt in verse was made at the age of thirteen. 
In 1787, he was matriculated as a student of St. John’s 
College, Cambridge. In one of the long vacations, he 
undertook a pedestrian excursion on the continent. The 
result of his observations he gave to the public, in 1793, 
with the title of Descriptive Sketches in Verse. In the 
same year, he published an epistle in verse, entitled An 
Evening Walk. Both of these poems contain many speci¬ 
mens of beautiful picturesque description. His Lyrical 
Ballads, intended as an experiment on a new system of 
poetry, were published in 1798. They were, through prin¬ 
ciple, written on the humblest subjects and in the language 
of the humblest life. But the attempt was not a success. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


34 ? 


Byron has ridiculed this new system in the following 
caustic lines: 

“ Next comes the dull disciple of the school, 

The mild apostate from poetic rule, 

The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 
As soft as evening in his favorite May, 

Who warns his friend to shake off toil and trouble, 

And quit his books for fear of growing double ; 

Who, both of precept and example shows 
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose; 

Convincing all by demonstration plain, 

Poetic souls delight in prose insane, 

And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 
Contain the essence of the true sublime .” 

The finer productions of Wordsworth’s muse are charac¬ 
terized by the union of deep feeling with profound thought, 
a power of observation which makes him familiar with all 
the loveliness and wonders of the world within and around 
us, and an imagination capable of inspiring all objects 
with poetic life. His diction is lofty, sustained, and impas¬ 
sioned, when he is not led astray by his attempts to extend 
the language of ordinary life to the subjects of poetry. 
“ He has rendered a service to English poetry by avoiding 
the turgid diction of the feeble imitators of Pope and 
Dryden, and by recalling our poets to the naturalness and 
simplicity of expression which comport so well with the 
genius of our language; but he has done our poetry an 
equal disservice by rendering it tame and feeble. Words¬ 
worth, like all English poets not of the first order, w*as too 
fond of what is called descriptive poetry. Of course we 
do not exclude description from poetry, and all great poets 
from Homer downwards, abound in descriptions; but their 
descriptive passages arc not introduced for the sake of 
description. Wordsworth’s descriptions are long and 


348 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


wearisome, though no doubt exact; but they serve only a 
descriptive purpose. They heighten no effect, illustrate no 
truth, bring home no thoughts or sentiment.”* 

It is difficult, at first sight, to reconcile the high praise 
bestowed by some critics on Wordsworth’s poetry with the 
low estimate formed by others of his power and genius. 
The fact is, that his poetry is of different kinds and in 
different styles. In his earliest pieces he imitates some¬ 
times Pope, sometimes Spenser. Then comes the bold 
simplicity of many of his lyric ballads; and, last of all, we 
have, in violation of what was supposed to be his principle, 
lofty themes, appropriate imagery, intense feeling, noble, 
sometimes turgid utterance—qualities that often remind 
the reader of Milton. His sonnets, especially those in 
praise of liberty and patriotism, are among the finest in our 
tongue. Of no writer, therefore, is it more important to 
ask, before we proceed to give judgment, what style of 
Wordsworth it is we have to criticise—the earliest, the i 
middle, or the last. There is now a pretty general agree¬ 
ment among all critics as to his faults and excellencies. 
He ranks with Cowper, because he is the strenuous advo¬ 
cate of simplicity and naturalness, though he did not j 
always understand or consistently adhere to his own prin- ! 
ciple. 

In 1843, he was appointed to the Laureateship left 
vacant by the death of Southey. After this appointment, 
he lived a quiet and dignified life at Rydal, evincing little 
apparent sympathy with the arduous duties and activities 
of every-day life. He departed calmly and peacefully at a 
good old age, in the year 1850. 


* Brownson’s Rev., Oct, 1855. 






THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


349 


Ode. 

Intimations of Immortality. 

Behold the child among 1 his new-born blisses, 

A six years’ darling of a pigmy size I 
See where ’mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses, 

With light upon him from his father’s eyes I 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 

Some fragment from his dream of human life 
Shaped by himself with newly-learn’d art; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral; 

And this has now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song: 

Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 

But, will not be long 
Ere this be thrown aside 
And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part; 

Filling from time to time his humorous stage 
With all the persons, down to palsied age, 

That life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As if his whole creation 
Were endless imitation. 


O joy that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 

That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 

The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 

For that which is most worthy to be blest; 

Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: 

30 



350 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Not for these I raise 

The song of thanks and praise ; 

But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 

Fallings from us, vanishings; 

Blank misgivings of a creature 

Moving about in worlds not realized, 

High instincts before which our morbid nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised ; 
But for these first affections, * 

Those shadowy recollections 
“Which, be they what they may, 

Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 

Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence; truths that wake 
To perish never; 

"Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 
Nor man nor boy, 

Nor all that is at enemy with joy, 

Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather, 
Though inland far we be, 

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea, 
Which brought us hither, 

Can in a moment travel thither, 

And see the children sport upon the shore, 

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 


FRANCIS JEFFREY, 1773-1850. 

Towards the beginning of the century, a fresh walk in 
literature was opened and cultivated with the most brilliant 
success. This was the new style of review and lengthened 
essay. Reviews indeed had long been established in Great 
Britain; and Addison, Steele, and Johnson, had brought 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 351 

the short essay to as great perfection as was practicable in 
that limited species of composition. But the Reviews and 
Magazines to which we now allude, brought talent of the 
first order to bear upon periodical criticism, and presented 
many original and brilliant disquisitions on highly impor¬ 
tant philosophical, political, historical, and literary subjects. 
The one who took the lead in this great revolution in 
literature, was Francis Jeffrey. He was born in the city 
of Edinburgh, in 1773. When the Edinburgh Review 
was first established in 1802, he was engaged in practising 
with his usual energies the arduous profession of the Law. 
From 1803 to 1829, Jeffrey had the sole management of 
the Review, to which he was a large contributor; and 
when we consider the distinguished ability which it has 
uniformly displayed, and the high moral character it has 
upheld, together with the independence and fearlessness 
with which from the first it has promulgated its canons of 
criticism on literature, science, and government, we must 
admit that few others have exercised such influence as 
Thomas Jeffrey on the whole current of contemporary lit¬ 
erature and public opinion. He selected the departments 
of poetry, biography, and moral philosophy, with occasional 
excursions into the neighboring domains of history and 
politics. 

Alison says of him: * “He was fitted by nature to be a 
great critic. A passionate admirer of poetry, alive to all 
the beauties and influences of nature, with feeling mind and 
sensitive heart, he possessed at the same time the calm 
judgment which enabled him to form an impartial opinion 
on the works submitted to his examination, and the correct 
taste which in general discovered genius aud detected im¬ 
perfections in them.” In 1^29, he was chosen Dean of the 


♦Hist, of Europe, 2d Series, Vol. I., p. 148. 



352 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Faculty of Advocates ; and, on his election to this office, 
he resigned the editorship of the Review into the hands of 
Macvey Napier. The year 1830 brought Jeffrey promi¬ 
nently into public life by his appointment as Lord-Advo¬ 
cate—the Prime Minister of Scotland—and, a year after, 
by his election to Parliament. His judicial labors were 
relieved by occasional contributions to the Edinburgh. 
At length he consented to the publication of a selection 
from the whole of his contributions. The work appeared 
in 1844 in three volumes, being only about a third of what 
he had actually written for the Review. His criticisms on 
Cowper, Crabbe, Byron, Scott, and Campbell, as well as 
on the earlier lights of English literature, Shakspeare and 
Milton, are written with acuteness and freshness. He 
himself tells us that his principle had been to combine 
ethical precepts with literary criticism, and to assert the 
close connection between sound intellectual attainments 
and the higher elements of duty, and the just and ultimate 
subordination of the former to the latter. To this principle 
he generally adheres, and some most vigorous rebukes of 
licentiousness and of infidelity are to be found in his pages. 

During the latter years of his life, though his health 
received several severe shocks, his cheerfulness and clear¬ 
ness of intellect were undiminislied. He sat in open court 
until within four days of his death, which happened in 
January, 1850. 

English Literature. 

Our first literature consisted of saintly legends, and romances 
of chivalry,—though Chaucer gave it a more national and popu¬ 
lar character, by his original descriptions of external nature, and 
tjie familiarity and gayety of his social humor. In the time of 
Elizabeth, it received a copious infusion of classical images and 
ideas: but it was still intrinsically romantic—serious—and even 
somewhat lofty and enthusiastic. Authors were then so few in 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 353 

number, that they were looked upon with a sort of veneration, 
and considered as a kind of inspired persons;—at least they were 
not yet so numerous as to be obliged to abuse each other, in 
order to obtain a share of distinction for themselves;—and they 
neither affected a tone of derision in their writings, nor wrote in 
fear of derision from others. They were filled with their sub¬ 
jects, and dealt with them fearlessly in their own way; and the 
stamp of originality, force, and freedom, is consequently upon 
almost all their productions. In the reign of James I., our lit¬ 
erature, with some few exceptions, touching rather the form than 
the substance of its merits, appears to us to have reached the 
greatest perfection to which it has yet attained ; though it would 
probably have advanced still further in the succeeding reign, had 
not the great national dissensions which then arose, turned the 
talent and energy of the people into other channels—first, to the 
assertion of their civil rights, and afterwards to the discussion 
of their religious interests. The graces of literature suffered of 
course in those fierce contentions; and a deeper shade of austerity 
was thrown upon the intellectual character of the nation. Her 
genius, however, though less captivating and adorned than in the 
happier days which preceded, was still active, fruitful, and com¬ 
manding ; and the period of the civil wars, besides the mighty 
minds that guided the public councils, and were absorbed in 
public cares, produced the giant powers of Taylor, and Hobbes, 
and Barrow—the muse of Milton—the learning of Coke—and the 
ingenuity of Cowley. 

The Restoration introduced a French court—under circum¬ 
stances more favorable for the effectual exercise of court influ¬ 
ence than ever before existed in England: but this of itself would 
not have been sufficient to account for the sudden change in our 
literature which ensued. It was seconded by causes of far more 
general operation. The Restoration was undoubtedly a popular 
act;—and, indefensible as the conduct of the army and the civil 
leaders was on that occasion, there can be no question that the 
severities of Cromwell, and the extravagances of the sectaries, 
had made republican professions hateful, and religious ardor 
ridiculous, in the eyes of a great proportion of the people. All 
the eminent writers of the preceding period, however, had in¬ 
clined to the party that was now overthrown; and their writ- 
30* 


354 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


ings had not merely been accommodated to the character of the 
government under which they were produced, hut were deeply 
imbued with its obnoxious principles, which were those of their 
respective authors. When the restraints of authority were taken 
off, therefore, and it became profitable, as well as popular, to dis¬ 
credit the fallen party, it was natural that the leading authors 
should affect a style of levity and derision, as most opposite to 
that of their opponents, and best calculated for the purposes they 
had in view. The nation, too, was now for the first time essen¬ 
tially divided in point of character and principle, and a much 
greater proportion were capable both of writing in support of 
their own notions, and of being influenced by what was written. 
Add to all this, that there were real and serious defects in the 
style and manner of the former generation ; and that the grace, 
and brevity, and vivacity of that gayer manner which was now 
introduced from France, were not only good and captivating in 
themselves, but had then all the charms of novelty and of con¬ 
trast ; and it will not be difficult to understand how it came to 
supplant that which had been established of old in the country. 

JOHN LINGARD, 1771-1851. 

John Lingard, the celebrated historian, was born of 
Catholic parents at Winchester, in 1771. At the age of 
eleven he was sent to the English College at Douay, where 
he was distinguished no less for the brilliancy of his talents 
than for a rare modesty of disposition. Driven back to 
England by the horrors of the French revolution, he com¬ 
pleted his course of theology in his native country, and * 
was raised to the priesthood in April, 1795. For some 
months previous to his ordination, he had acted as vice- 
president of Crook Hall, where a small party of the Douay 
students had lately resumed their collegiate exercises: he 
now became prefect of the studies in this institution, and 
for many years filled with eminent success the chair both 
of natural and moral philosophy. 

From an early period, the mind of Lingard had been 
accustomed to dwell on the antiquities of his country, and 




THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 355 

his spare moments at Crook Hall were devoted to the same 
object. The result of his studies appeared in a work enti¬ 
tled The Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church , which 
evinces depth of research and uncommon penetration of 
mind. It was published in 1806, in two volumes. Five 
years later, the Rev. author quitted the professional chair 
and withdrew to the secluded mission of Hornby. Avail¬ 
ing himself of the leisure afforded him in his new situation, 
Lingard gave to the world several minor publications, all 
exhibiting much ability and learning. But it was not till 
after repeated solicitations from his friends, after many 
years of silent and almost unconscious preparation that he 
applied his energies to the great work on which his reputa¬ 
tion is founded : the History of England from the Inva¬ 
sion of the Romans to the Accession of William and 
Mary. The eight volumes of the first edition were pub¬ 
lished in succession between the years 1819 and 1830. 

To talents of a high order, both as regards acuteness of 
analysis and powers of description and narrative, Dr. 
Lingard added unconquerable industry. Sources of infor¬ 
mation new and important were also opened to him. He 
drew his material from original documents, which he himself 
had examined with diligence; and, on many points, gave 
new and correct views of manners, events, and characters. 
The truthfulness of his History is now admitted on all 
hands. “ His work,” says Chambers, “ was subjected to a 
rigid scrutiny by Dr. Allen in two elaborate articles in the 
Edinburgh Review, and by Rev. W. Todd in his defence 
of the character of Cranmer. To these antagonists Dr. 
Lingard replied, in 1826, by A Vindication of his fidelity 
as a historian, which affords an excellent specimen of con¬ 
troversial writing. His work has now taken its place 
among the most valuable of our national histories.” “ His 
style,” according to the Edinburgh Review, “is nervous 


356 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


and concise, and never enfeebled by useless epithets or 
encumbered with redundant unmeaning phrases. If it be 
deficient in that happy negligence and apparent ease of 
expression—if it want ‘those careless inimitable beauties’ 
which, in Hume, excited the despair and admiration of 
Gibbon—there is no other modern history with which it 
may not challenge a comparison. The narrative of Liu- 
gard has the perspicuity of Robertson, with more freedom 
and fancy. His diction has the ornament of Gibbon, 
without his affectation and obscurity. ... His narrative 
has a freshness, of character, a stamp of originality not to 
be found in any general history of England in common 
use. To borrow his own metaphor, he has not drawn 
from the troubled stream, but drunk from the fountain¬ 
head.” * 

In his desire to conciliate the minds of his Protestant 
countrymen, Dr. Lingard adopted the views of the Gallican 
school in regard to the exercise of the papal authority. 
His concessions on this head are not a little shocking to 
genuine Catholics. Yet, whilst they regret not to see their 
Church presented in a truer and more amiable light, they 
should make great allowance for the peculiar circumstances 
which surrounded the historian. It was with this view 
that pope Leo XII. said of those who assailed the modera¬ 
tion of the writer: “Why, these gentlemen seem not to 
reflect either upon the times or the places in which the 
history was written.” Pius YII. had also acknowledged 
the merits of Lingard by conferring on him the triple 
academical laurel, D. D. and D. L. L., and Leo XII. in¬ 
tended to add the cardinal’s hat, but was deterred by the 
historian’s anxiety to avert the threatened dignity. Of the 
high estimation in which Lingard’s History is held by 


* Edinb. Rov. IS25 and 1826, 





THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 357 

English Catholics, we may form an idea from the following 
tribute paid to his memory by Cardinal Wiseman: “ It is 
a Providence that, in history, we have had given to the 
nation a writer like Lingard, whose gigantic merit will be 
better appreciated in each successive generation as it sees 
his work standing calm and erect amidst the shoals of petty 
pretenders to usurp his station. When Hume shall have 
fairly taken his place among the classical writers of our 
tongue, and Macaulay shall have been transferred to the 
shelves of romancers and poets, and each shall thus have 
received his true meed of praise, then Lingard will be still 
more conspicuous as the only impartial historian of our 
country. This is a mercy indeed, and rightful honor to 
him, who, at such a period of time, worked his way, not 
into a high rank, but to the very loftiest point of literary 
position.” * 

Among the minor works published by Dr. Lingard, we 
may notice his Translation of the Four Gosj)els; his 
Catechetical Instructions, and many articles of a polemical 
or historical character contributed to various periodicals. 

The venerable historian tranquilly breathed his last in 
July, 1851, in the eighty-first year of his age. 

Death of Mary Stuart. 

The procession now set forward. It was headed by the sheriff 
and his officers ; next followed Pawlet and Drury, and the earls 
of Shrewsbury and Kent; and, lastly, came the Scottish queen, 
with Melville bearing her train. She wore the richest of her 
dresses, that which was appropriate to the rank of a queen 
dowager. Her step was firm, and her countenance cheerful. 
She bore without shrinking the gaze of the spectators and the 
sight of the scaffold, the block, and the executioner; and advanced 


♦Dublin Rev. 1st series, No. XXXV. 



358 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


into the liall with that grace and majesty, which she had so often 
displayed in her happier days, and in the palace of her fathers. 
To aid her, as she mounted the scaffold, Pawlet offered his arm. 
“ I thank you, sir,” said Mary ; “ it is the last trouble I shall give 
you, and the most acceptable service you have ever rendered 
me.” 

The queen seated herself on a stool which was prepared for her. 
On her right stood the two earls; on the left the sheriff and Beal, 
the clerk of the council; in front the executioner from the 
Tower, in a suit of black velvet, with his assistant also clad in 
black. The warrant was read, and Mary in an audible voice 
addrq|sed the assembly. She would have them recollect, she said, 
that she was a sovereign princess, not subject to the parliament 
of England, but brought there to suffer by injustice and violence. 
She, however, thanked her God that He had given her this oppor¬ 
tunity of publicly professing her religion, and of declaring, as 
she had often before declared, that she had never imagined, nor 
compassed, nor consented to, the death of the English queen, nor 
ever sought the least harm to her person. After her death many 
things, which were then buried in darkness, would come to light. 
But she pardoned from her heart all her enemies, nor should her 
tongue utter that which might turn to their prejudice. Here she 
was interrupted by Dr. Fletcher, dean of Peterborough, who, 
having caught her eye, began to preach, and under the cover, 
perhaps through motives of zeal, contrived to insult the feelings 
of the unfortunate sufferer. He told her that his mistress, though 
compelled to execute justice on her body, was careful of the 
welfare of her soul; that she had sent him to bring her to the 
true fold of Christ, out of the communion of that church, in 
which, if she remained, she must be damned ; that she might yet 
find mercy before God, if she would repent of her wickedness, 
acknowledge the justice of her punishment, and profess her grati¬ 
tude for the favors which she had received from Elizabeth. 
Mary repeatedly desired him not to trouble himself and her. He 
persisted : she turned aside. He made the circuit of the scaffold, 
and again addressed her in front. An end was put to this extra- 
ordinarj r scene by the Earl of Shrewsbury, who ordered him to 
pray. His prayer was the echo of his sermon ; but Mary heard 
him not. She was employed at the time in her devotions, repeat- 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


359 


ing with a loud voice and in the Latin language, long passages 
from the book of Psalms. When he had done, she prayed in 
English for Christ’s afflicted Church, for her son James, and for 
queen Elizabeth. At the conclusion, holding up the crucifix, 
she exclaimed : “ As thy arms, O God, were stretched out upon 

the cross, so receive me into the arms of thy mercy, and forgive 
me my sins.” “Madam.” said the earl of Kent, “you had 
better leave such popish trumperies, and bear him in your heart.” 
She replied: “I cannot hold in my hand the representation 
of his sufferings, but I must at the same time bear him in my 
heart.” 

"When her maids, bathed in tears, began to disrobe their 
mistress, the executioners, fearing to lose their usual perquisites, 
hastily interfered. The queen remonstrated, but instantly sub¬ 
mitted to their rudeness, observing to the earls with a smile, that 
she was not accustomed to employ such grooms, or to undress in 
the presence of so numerous a company. Iler servants, at the 
sight of their sovereign in this lamentable state, could not sup¬ 
press their feelings; but Mary, putting her finger to her lips, 
commanded silence, gave them her blessing, and solicited their 
prayers. She then seated herself again. Kennedy, taking a 
handkerchief edged with gold, pinned it over her eyes; the 
executioners, holding her by the arms, led her to the block ; and 
the queen, kneeling down, said repeatedly, with a firm voice, 
“ Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.” But the sobs 
and groans of the spectators disconcerted the headsman. He 
trembled, missed his aim, and inflicted a deep wound in the lower 
part of the skull The queen remained motionless, and at the 
third stroke her head was severed from the body. When the 
executioner held it up, the muscles of the face were so strongly 
convulsed, that the features could not be recognized. He cried 
as usual, “ God save queen Elizabeth.” 

« go perish all her enemies 1” subjoined the dean of Peterbo¬ 
rough. 

“ So perish all the enemies of the Gospel !” exclaimed, in a still 
louder tone, the fanatical earl of Kent. 

Not a voice was heard to cry amen: Party feeling was absorbed 
in admiration and pity. 


360 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


THOMAS MOORE, 1779-1852. 

Thomas Moore, the ‘sweet son of song,’ was born in 
Dublin, in the year 1779. After the usual course of study, 
he entered Trinity College in his native city, and soon 
gave proof that he had made more than ordinary progress 
in the department of classical scholarship. His first work 
was a translation into English verse of the Odes of-Anac¬ 
reon, in which he exhibits great extent of reading and no 
mean proficiency in Greek philology. Soon after this, lie 
published his miscellaneous poems, under the pseudonym 
of Thomas Little. Though this volume established his 
poetical reputation, it was severely censured for the sensual 
and immoral tone of too many of the pieces. In 1806 he 
visited the United States; and, soon after his return to 
England, published his remarks on American society and 
manners in a volume entitled Epistles, Odes, and other 
poems, which, like the poems ascribed to Little, are objec¬ 
tionable in a moral point of view. In 1812, he commenced 
a series of political and personal satires, full of the most I 
happy turns of ingenuity and playful fancy; for the time j 
extremely popular, but destined, on account of the merely 
temporary interest of their topics, speedily to pass away 
and be forgotten. Among them are the Two penny Post¬ 
bag, or Intercepted Letters ; the Fudge Family in Paris, 
supposed to be written by a party of English travellers at j 
the French capital; and the Parody on a Celebrated 
Letter in which every line has its open or covert sting. 
But the work upon which will be founded the poets widest 
and most enduring reputation, is his volume of Irish \ 
Melodies —a collection of about 120 lyrics, adapted to 
Irish national airs of great beauty. Their measure and 
tone of sentiment, which are ever varying, would seem to 
speak the language of different minds, were it not for the 




THE MODERN ENGLISH TERIOD. 


361 


‘hidden soul of harmony f which pervades them all, and 
shows them to be the production of one master spirit. 
The perusal of these Melodies brings back to the imagina¬ 
tion feelings and scenes and persons long since forgotten— 
the fairy land of early home is again presented to us ; for 
the home of childhood is the fairy land of riper years: 

The smiles, the tears, 

Of boyhood’s years, 

The words of ‘joy ’ then spoken : 

The eyes that shone, 

Now dimmed and gone, 

The cheerful hearts now broken ! 

Moore is evidently no lover of strife and bloody conflict. 
In the midst of the darkness and the tempest, there is 
heard a soft note of peace, there is seen a streak of light, 

Like moonlight on a troubled sea, 

Brightening the storm it cannot calm. 

But in the softer passions of affection, pity, sorrow, joy— 
those which preside over the domestic hearth, or the festive 
board, or the places of religious worship,—in these he 
possesses a power of painting never surpassed.* 

He also published a series of Sacred songs, and seventy 
other songs adapted to tunes peculiar to various countries. 
In 1811 appeared the celebrated Oriental Romance, Lalla 
Rookh, consisting of several stories strung together and 
written in rhymed couplets. The slender plot of these 
stories is related in that ingenious and sparkling prose of 
which Moore was a consummate master. There is in 
Lalla Roolch far too incessant a profusion of ornament, 
which, though rich and appropriate, is so thickly sown that 
the effect of the whole is like that of some oriental robe in 

5 

/ 

♦Dublin Review, No. 20. 

/ 


31 




362 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


which the whole texture is concealed with an unbroken 
surface of pearl and ruby and diamond. 

In 1825 was published his Life of Sheridan , and in 
1830 his Life of Byron. They are not so much lives as 
memoirs ; the author allows the subject of the biography 
to tell his own story; and the mass of the book consists of 
extracts from the journals and correspondence of the person 
whose life we are reading 1 . Moore is also the author-of 
The Epicurean , a tale ; The Memoirs of Captain Bock; 
The Skeptic, a philosophical satire, and The History of 
Ireland, in the opinion of some, the best written of all his 
prose works. 

His Travels of an Irish Gentleman in Search of a 
Beligion is a controversial work which deserves special 
notice, as giving evidence of deep thought and reading. 1 
In the collection of Protestant opinions and testimonies, j 
and in the truly learned and striking view r of the spirit 
and progress of German rationalism ; and indeed in the 
arrangement and moulding of the matter of the whole 
work, there are exhibited the workings of a mind emi- ] 
nently active, vigorous, and original. We have no objec- i 
tion to see the pillars of truth wreathed with the flowers j 
of fancy, which adorn without concealing the strength ; at 
least, we are sure that the class of readers to whom Moore ! 
addressed himself, expected so much, and would not have i 
been satisfied with less.* 

Moore's excellencies consist in the gracefulness of his i 
thoughts and sentiments, the wit and fancy of his allusions 
and imagery, and the music and refinement of his versifica- j 
tion. His great fault is the irreverence and indelicacy of 
many of his pieces. The last three years of his life were 
burdened with a lingering disease, which, gradually ener- 


* Dublin Review, No. 20. 




THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


363 


vating the mind, finally reduced him to a state of childish 
imbecillity. His death occurred iu 1852. 


Tiiou art, O God. 

Thou art, 0 God, the life and light 
Of all this wond’rous world we see; 

Its glow by day, its smile by night, 

Are but reflections caught from Thee. 
"Where'er we turn Thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are Thine 1 

When day, with farewell beam, delays 
Among the op’ning clouds of even, 

And we can almost think we gaze 
Through golden vistas into heaven— 

Those hues that make the sun’s decline' 

So soft, so radiant, Lord ! are Thine. 

When night, with wings of starry gloom, 
O’ershadows all the earth and skies, 

Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume 
Is sparkling with unnumber’d eyes— 

That sacred gloom, those fires divine, 

So grand, so countless, Lord ! are Thine. 

When youthful spring around us breathes, 
Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; 

And every flower the summer wreathes 
Is born beneath that kindling eye. 

Where’er we turn, Thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are Thine! 

This World is all a Fleeting Show. 

This world is all a fleeting show, 

For man’s illusion given ; 

The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, 
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow— 

There’s nothing true_but heaven 1 


3G4 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


And false the light on glory’s plume, 
As fading hues of even 1 
And love and hope and beauty’s bloom 
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb— 
There’s nothing bright but heaven ! 

Poor wand’rers of a stormy day ! 

From wave to wave we’re driven, 
And fancy’s flash and reason’s ray 
Serve but to light the troubled way— 
There’s nothing calm but heaven 1 


War Song. 

Remember ike Glories of Brian the Brave .* 

Remember the glories of Brian the brave, 

Though the days of the hero are o’er ; 

Though lost to Mononiaf, and cold in the grave, 
He returns to Kinkora^; no more! 

That star of the field, which so often has pour’d 
Its beam on the battle, is set; 

But enough of its glory remains on each sword 
To light us to glory yet! 

Mononia ! when nature embellish’d the tint 
Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair, 

Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print 
The footstep of slavery there ? 

Ho, freedom ! whose smile we shall never resign, 
Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, 

’Tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, 
Than to sleep but a moment in chains ! 


* Brian Boru, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle 
ofClontarf, in the beginning of the eleventh century, after having defeated 
the Danes in twenty-five engagements, 
f Munster. 


JThe palace of Brian. 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


365 


Forget not our wounded companions who stood* 

In the day of distress by our side; 

"W hile the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, 
They stirr’d not, but conquer’d and died! 

The sun that now blesses our arms with his light, 

Saw them fall upon Ossory’s plain ! 

Oh let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, 

To find that they fell there in vain ! 

The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls. 

The harp that once through Tara’s halls 
The soul of music shed, 

Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls 
As if that soul were fled. 

So sleeps the pride of former days, 

So glory’s thrill is o’er, 

And hearts that once beat high for praise, 

Now feel that pulse no more ! 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright, 

The harp of Tara swells ; 

The chord alone that breaks at night, 

Its tale of ruin tells. 

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks, 

To shew that still she lives. 


♦This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the 
Tavorite troops of Brian, when they were interrupted in their return from 
the battle of Clontarf by Fitzpatrick, Prince of Ossory. The wounded men 
entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest— u Let stakes ,” 
they said, “ be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied to and supported 
by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man." “ Be¬ 
tween seven and eight hundred wounded men,” adds O’Halloran, “ pale, 
emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the fore¬ 
most of the troops—never was such another sight exhibited.”— History of 
Ireland, book xii., chap. i. 


31 * 



366 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Before the Battle. 

By the hope within us springing, 

Herald of to-morrow’s strife; 

By that sun whose light is bringing 
Chains or freedom, death or life— 

Oh ! remember, life can be 
No charm for him that lives not free ! 

Like the day-star in the wave, 

Sinks a hero to his grave, 

Midst the dew-fall of a nation’s tears ! 

Blessed is he o’er whose decline 
The smiles of home may soothing shine, 
And light him down the steep of years: — 
But, oh, how grand they sink to rest 
Who close their eyes on victory’s breast 1 

O’er his watch-fire’s fading embers 
Now the foeman’s cheek turns white, 
While his heart that field remembers 
Where we dimm’d his glory’s light! 

Never let him bind again 
A chain like that we broke from then. 

Hark ! the horn of combat calls— 

Oh, before the evening falls, 

May we pledge that horn in triumph round ! 

Many a heart that now beats high, 

In slumber cold at night shall lie, 

Nor waken even at victory’s sound :— 

But, oh, how blest that hero’s sleep, 

O’er whom a wondering world shall weep ! 

After the Battle. 

Night closed around the conqueror’s way, 
And lightning shew’d the distant hill, 
Where those who lost that dreadful day, 
Stood few and faint, but fearless still! 






THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


361 


The soldier’s hope, the patriot’s zeal, 

For ever dimm’d, for ever crost— 

Oh, who shall say what heroes feel, 

When all but life and honor’s lost! 

The last sad hour of freedom’s dream 
And valor’s task moved slowly by, 

While mute they watch’d till morning’s beam 
Should rise and give them light to die 1 
There is a world where souls are free, 

Where tyrants taint not nature’s bliss ; 

If death that world’s bright opening be, 

Oh ! who would live a slave in this ? 

Dear Harp of my Country. 

Dear Harp of my country ! in darkness I found thee, 

The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long, 

When proudly, my own Island Harp ! I unbound thee, 

And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song ! 

The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness 
Have waken’d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; 

But so oft hast thou echo’d the deep sigh of sadness, 

That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. 

Dear Harp of my country ! farewell to thy numbers, 

This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ; 

' Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers, 

Till touch’d by some hand less unworthy than mine. 

If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, 

Has throbb’d at our lay, ’tis thy glory alone; 

I was but as the wind passing heedlessly over, 

And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own. 

SAMUEL ROGERS, 17G3-1855. 

Samuel Rogers, distinguished for a melodious flow of 
verse and happy choice of expression, was born in 1*763, 
in a suburb of London. After a careful private education, 
he was introduced into his father’s banking business, and, 


368 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


up to the time of his death, continued to be a partner in 
the bank. His first appearance as an author was in 1787, 
when he published an Ode to Superstition , with other 
Poems. At different intervals succeeded The Pleasures 
of Memory , Human Life , and Italy , which was completed 
in 1828. This last, a descriptive poem in blank verse, is 
his longest but not his best performance. It is chiefly as 
author of The Pleasures of Memory that Rogers will be 
known to posterity. “ There is a poetry of taste,” says 
Chambers, “ as well as of the passions, which can only be 
relished by the intellectual classes, but is capable of im¬ 
parting exquisite pleasure to those who have the key to its 
hidden mysteries. We have everywhere in his works a 
classic and graceful beauty; no slovenly or obscure lines ; 
fine cabinet pictures of soft and mellow lustre; and occa¬ 
sionally trains of thought and association that awaken or 
recall tender and heroic feelings. On the other hand, it 
must be admitted that he has no forcible or original inven¬ 
tion, no deep pathos that thrills the soul; and no kindling 
energy that fires the imagination. Without being an 
imitator of Goldsmith, he belongs to the school of that 
poet. Until the failure of his mental powers, a short 
time previous to his death, he retained that love of the 
beautiful which was in him a passion. When more than 
ninety and a close prisoner to his chair, he still delighted 
to watch the changing colors of the evening sky, to 
repeat passages of his favorite poets, or to dwell on the 
merits of the great painters whose works adorned his 
walls.” His purse was ever open to the distressed. Of 
the prompt assistance which he rendered in the hour 
of need to various well known individuals there is ample 
record; but of his many acts of kindness and charity 
to the wholly obscure, there is no memorial—at least 
on earth. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


369 


By a slow decay and without any suffering, he died in 
his far-famed mansion in St. James’s Place, on the 18th of 
December, 1855. 

Prom The Pleasures of Memory . 

Lull’d in the countless chambers of the brain, 

Our thoughts are link’d by many a hidden chain. 

Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise ! 

Each stamps its image as the other flies. 

Each, as the various avenues of sense 
Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, 

Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art, 

Control the latent fibres of the heart. 

As studious Prospero's mysterious spell 
Drew every subject-spirit to his cell; 

Each, at thy call, advances or retires, 

As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires. 

Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source 
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, 

And through the frame invisibly convey 
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play ; 

Man’s little universe at once o’ercast, 

At once illumined when the cloud is past. 

Ah ! who can tell the triumphs of the mind, 

By truth illumined, and by taste refined ? 

When age has quench’d the eye, and closed the ear, 

Still nerved for action in her native sphere, 

Oft will she rise—with searching glance pursue 
Some long-loved image vanish’d from her view ; 

Dart through the deep recesses of the past, 

O’er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast \ 

With giant-grasp fling back the folds of night, 

And snatch the faithless fugitive to light. 

So through the grove the impatient mother flies, 

Each sunless glade, each secret pathway tries ; 

Till the thin leaves the truant boy disclose, 

Long on the wood-moss stretch’d in sweet repose. 




310 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


• Nor yet to pleasing objects are confined 
The silent feasts of the reflecting mind. 

Danger and death a dread delight inspire ; 

And the hald veteran glows with wonted fire, 

When, richly bronzed by many a summer-sun, 

He counts his scars, and tells what deeds were done. 

Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mind 
From age to age unnumber’d treasures shine ! 

Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, 

And Place and Time are subjects to thy sway ! 

Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone ; 

The only pleasures we can call our own. 

Lighter than air, Hope’s summer-visions die, 

If but a fleeting cloud obscured the sky; 

If but a beam of sober Reason play, 

Lo, Fancy’s fairj^ frost-work melts away ! 

But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, 

Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour ? 

These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, 

Pour round her path a stream of living light; 

And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, 

Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest! 

HENRY HALLAM, 1778-1859. 

Henry Hallam, one of the most distinguished of modern 
historians, was born about 1778, and was educated at Eton 
and Oxford. He was a valued friend of Sir Walter Scott, 
and both were engaged at the same time as contributors to 
the Edinburgh Review. In 1830, he received one of the 
two fifty-guinea gold medals instituted by George IV. for 
eminence in historical composition, the other being awarded 
to our celebrated countryman Washington Irving. Hallam 
is the author of three great works, any one of which is 
sufficient to confer upon the author literary immortality. 

1st. View of the Stale of Europe during the Middle 
Ages , 2 vols. 4to, 1818. The period of the Middle Ages, 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 3H 

according to him, extends from the middle of the fifth to 
the end of the fifteenth century: from the establishment of 
Clovis in Gaul to the invasion of Italy by Charles VIII. 
It is a work of profound research, displaying a free and 
vigorous spirit of inquiry and criticism, and is the most 
complete and highly finished of his valuable productions. 

2d. Constitutional History of England from the acces¬ 
sion of Henry VII. to the death of George II. In the 
review of this history Macaulay says: “ Hallam’s knowledge 
is extensive, various, and profound. . . . His work is emi¬ 
nently judicial; its whole spirit, that of the bench, not that 
of the bar. He sums up with a calm steady impartiality, 
turning neither to the right nor to the left, glossing over 
nothing, exaggerating nothing, while the advocates on both 
sides are alternately biting their lips to hear their con¬ 
flicting misstatements and sophisms exposed. On a general 
survey, we do not scruple to pronounce the Constitutional 
History to be the most impartial book that we ever 
read.” 

3d. Introduction to the Literature of Europe in the 
Fifteenth, Sixteenth, and Seventeenth Centuries, Jf vols., 
8vo. 11 This is a production,” says Chancellor Kent, “ of 
the greatest value, and distinguished like his other works, 
for research, judgmeut, taste, and elegance.” The fol¬ 
lowing splendid testimonial of its merit is from the Edin¬ 
burgh Review. “ Most assuredly the reader who does not 
employ it merely to fill up the leisure of a few hours, but 
consults it for guidance, and refers to its authority, will 
never use it without an augmented sense of its value and 
respect for its author. He will be struck with the modest 
simplicity with which its stores of very extensive erudition 
are displayed. He will be struck with an honesty, even in 
the mere conduct of the work, rarely found in publications 
pretending to anything like the same amount of research.” 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


372 

Other critics*, whilst admitting Hallam’s candor and 
honesty, and believing him wholly incapable of distorting 
truth to serve party purposes, are compelled to add that 
he is not entirely free from that kind of partiality which is 
the offspring of involuntary prejudice and early education. 
Hallam, like Burke, in his later years ‘ lived in an inverted 
order: they who ought to have succeeded him, had gone 
before him ; they who should have been to him as posterity, 
were in the place of ancestors.’ These bereavements were 
keenly felt by him; for he was a man of warm and gentle 
affections. 

The eminent historian died in January, 1859, having 
reached the great age of eightv-one, 

Shakspeare. 

The name of Sliakspeare is the greatest in our literature—it is 
the greatest in all literature. No man ever came near to him in 
the creative powers of the mind; no man had ever such strength 
at once, and such variety of imagination. Coleridge has most 
felicitously applied to him a Greek epithet, given before to I 
know not whom, certainly none so deserving of it, /wpiovovs 
the tliousand-souled Sliakspeare. The number of characters in 
his plays is astonishingly great, without reckoning those who, 
although transient, have often their individuality; all distinct, 
all types of human life in well-defined differences. . . . This it 
is in which he leaves far behind, not the dramatists alone, but all 
writers of fiction. Compare with him Homer, the tragedians of 
Greeco, the poets of Italy, Plautus, Cervantes, Moliere, Addison, 
Le Sage, Fielding, Richardson, Scott, the romancers of the elder 
or later schools—one man has far more than surpassed them all. 
Others may have been as sublime, others may have equalled him 
in grace and purity of language, and have shunned some of its 
faults ; but the philosophy of Shakspeare, his intimate searching 
out of the human heart, whether in the gnomic form of sentence, 


*See Dublin Review, 1st series, Nos. XIX and XX. 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 373 

or in the dramatic exhibition of character, is a gift peculiarly his 
own. . . . 

The idolatry of Shakspeare has been carried so far of late years 
that Drake and perhaps greater authorities have been unwilling 
to acknowledge any faults in his plays. This, however, is an 
extravagance rather derogatory to the critic than honorable to 
the poet. Besides the blemishes of construction in some of his 
plots, which are pardonable, hut still blemishes, there are too 
many in his style. His conceits and quibbles often spoil the effect 
of his scenes, and take off from the passion he would excite. . . . 
Few will defend these notorious faults. But is there not one, less 
frequently mentioned, yet of more continual recurrence—the 
extreme obscurity of Shakspeare’s diction ? His style is full of 
new words and new senses. It is easy to pass this over as obso¬ 
leteness ; but, it is impossible to deny that innumerable lines in 
Shakspeare were not more intelligible in his time than they are 
at present. Much of this may be forgiven, or, rather, is so incor¬ 
porated with the strength of his reason and fancy that we love it 
as the proper body of Shakspeare’s soul. Still, can we justify the 
very numerous passages which yield to no interpretation ; knots 
which are never unloosed ; which conjecture does but cut; or 
even those which, if they may at last be understood, keep the 
attention in perplexity till the first emotion has passed away? 
We learn Shakspeare, in fact, as we learn a language, or as we 
read a difficult passage in Greek, with the eye glancing on the 
commentary ; and it is only after much study that we come to 
forget a part, it can be but a part, of the perplexities he has caused 
us. This was no doubt one reason that he was less read formerly, 
his style passing for obsolete, though in many parts, as we have 
just said, it was never much more intelligible than it is. 


THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY, 1800-1859. 

T. B. Macaulay, one of the most attractive, if not the 
most learned, of British essayists and critics, was born in 
1800 at Rothly Temple. In 1818, he entered Trinity 
College, Cambridge; and, in 1821, he was elected to a 
‘Craven scholarship,’ the highest distinction in classics 
32 



374 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


which the University confers. In 1825 appeared his cele¬ 
brated article on Milton, in the Edinburgh Review. It 
bears marks of a youthful taste, but no less certainly of 
that genius which has made its author the most brilliant 
contributor to our critical literature. In 1826, he was 
called to the bar; and, in 1830, he entered Parliament. 
An appointment as legal adviser of the Supreme Court of 
Calcutta took him to India, where he was placed at the 
head of the commission for the reform of Indian law. The 
study of Indian history to which that appointment led, 
produced the essays on Lord Clive, 1840; and on Warren 
Hastings, 1841. His Lays of Ancient Home appeared in 
1842. He chants in them the martial stories of Horatius 
Codes, the battle of the Lake Regillus, the death of 
Virginia, and the prophecy of Capys, with a simplicity and 
fire that win our hearts. To these ancient ballads may be 
added some polished little poems of modern times, as lory, 
a song of the Huguenots, in which perhaps there is nearly 
as much poetical license as in the ballads of antiquity. 

In 1843 Lord Macaulay published a collection of Critical j 
and Historical Essays contributed to the Edinburgh 
Review, which are still unrivalled among productions of 
this class. His review of Hallam’s Constitutional History j 
of England , and his sketches of Sir Robert Walpole, 
Chatham, Sir William Temple, Clive, and Warren Hastings, 
form a series of brilliant and complete historical retrospects 
and summaries unequalled in our literature, while his con¬ 
tributions to the biographical portion of the Encyclopaedia 
Brittanica, in the lives of. Atterbury, Bunyan, Goldsmith, 
Johnson, and the second William Pitt, exhibit his powers 
in other and various departments. It is, however, but just 
to observe that the brilliancy and erudition of the essayist 
are no guarantee against false views, false interpretations, 
and false conclusions. The writings of Macaulay are 





THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


375 

exceedingly attractive; but, certainly, they are no safe 
guide in the appreciation of men and events. 

In 1848 appeared the first two volumes of his great 
historical work, The History of England from the Acces¬ 
sion of James II. The five volumes, the last of which is 
posthumous, give the history of litfcle more than fifteen 
years, leaving nearly the whole of the eighteenth century 
untouched. The work is therefore, in one sense, only a 
fragment. Its success, however, was most extraordinarv. 
Its fascinating style, its portraits of historical personages, 
all brought before us in life and action, and the genius 
with which the facts and events are grouped and described, 
render the charm irresistible. However, in producing his 
distinct and striking impressions, the historian is charged 
with painting too strongly and exaggerating his portraits. 
He does not make allowance for the character and habits 
of the times; and he seizes upon doubtful and obscure 
incidents, or statements by unscrupulous adversaries, as 
pregnant and infallible proofs of guilt. The following is 
the criticism passed by the Blackwood Magazine : “ Every¬ 
body reads—everybody admires—but nobody believes in— 
Mr. Macaulay. This, which is perhaps the most brilliant 
of all histories, seems about the least reliable of any.” * 
And yet it is a marvellous work, although the thoughtful 
reader may wish not seldom for something less passionate 
and more judicial. 

In 1859, he died full of honors, if not of years, and was 
buried in Westminster Abbey. 

From The History of England. 

I purpose to write the history of England from the accession of 
King James the Second down to a time which is within the 
memory of men still living. I shall recount the errors which, in 


* Aug. 1856. 




376 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


a few months, alienated a loyal gentry and priesthood from the 
House of Stuart. I shall trace the course of that revolution 
which terminated the long struggle between our sovereigns and 
their parliaments, and hound up together thq rights of the people 
and the title of the reigning dynasty. 

I shall relate how the new settlement was, during many troubled 
years, successfully defended against foreign and domestic enemies ; 
how, under that settlement, the authority of law and the security 
of property were found to be compatible with a liberty of discus¬ 
sion and of individual action never before known ; how, from 
the auspicious union of order and freedom, sprang a prosperity of 
which the annals of human affairs had furnished no example; 
how our country, from a state of ignominious vassalage, rapidly 
rose to the place of umpire among European powers; how her 
opulence and her martial glory grew together ; how, by wise and 
resolute good faith, was gradually established a public credit 
fruitful of marvels which to the statesmen of any former age 
would have seemed incredible ; how a gigantic commerce gave 
birth to a maritime power, compared with which every other 
maritime power, ancient or modern, sinks into insignificance ; 
how Scotland, after ages of enmity, was at length united to 
England, not merely by legal bonds, but by indissoluble ties of 
interest and affection; how, in America, the British colonies 
rapidly became far mightier and wealthier than the realms which 
Cortez and Pizarro had added to the dominion of Charles the 
Fifth ; how, in Asia, British adventurers founded an empire not 
less splendid and more durable than that of Alexander. 

Nor will it be less my duty faithfully to record disasters mingled 
with triumphs, and great national crimes and follies far more 
humiliating than any disaster. It will be seen that even what 
we justly account our chief blessings, were not without alloy. It 
will be seen that the system which effectually secured our liberties 
against the encroachments of kingly power, gave birth to a new 
class of abuses from which absolute monarchies are exempt. It 
will be seen that, in consequence partly of unwise interference, 
and partly of unwise neglect, the increase of wealth and the 
extension of trade produced together with immense good, some 
evils from which poor and rude societies are free. It will be seen 
how, in two important dependencies of the crown, wrong was 
followed by a just retribution ; how imprudence and obstinacy 


TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 3TT 

broke the ties which bound the North American colonies to the 
parent State ; how Ireland, cursed by the domination of race 
over race, and of religion over religion, remained indeed a mem¬ 
ber of the empire, but a withered and disordered member, adding 
no strength to the body politic, and reproachfully pointed at by 
all who feared or envied the greatness of England. 


WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY, 1811-1863. 

William M. Thackeray was born in Calcutta in the year 
1811. His father, of an old Yorkshire family, was em¬ 
ployed in the civil service of the East India Company. 
The young Thackeray was sent to England when seven 
years old, and was placed at the Charter-House School, 
whence he passed to the University of Cambridge. During 
youth he was left an orphan with a fortune said to be 
$100,000. He displayed an early taste for art, and, having 
quitted the University without his degree, he repaired to 
Rome and afterwards to other continental cities, where lie 
devoted himself to art-studies during the next four or five 
years. His proficiency was considerable, and a future of 
distinction as a painter seemed to await him. But in 
consequence of the loss of his fortune, partly through the 
fault of others, and partly through his own, he was obliged 
to turn his attention to other pursuits. He first studied 
law at the Middle Temple, though he was not called to 
the Bar until 1848, when his success in letters seemed 
already assured. He was past the age of thirty, when he 
settled down to the walks of literature. As a correspon¬ 
dent of the London Times, the New Monthly Magazine, 
and other journals and periodicals, he attracted notice ; but 
not until he became a contributor to Punch and Frazer’s 
Magazine did he enjoy popularity. His papers appeared 
under such fictitious names or facetious titles as Michael 
Angelo Titmarsh, Fitz-Boodle, The Fat Contributor, Miss 
*32 


378 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Tickletoby’s Lectures, Jeames’s Diary, Punch in the East, 
Punch’s Prize Novelists, The Snob Papers, The Traveller 
in London, Mr. Brown’s Letters to a young man about 
Town, The Proser, &c. He wrote with equal facility in 
verse and prose. His Vanity Fair , illustrated by himself, 
or, to employ his own metaphor, ‘ illuminated with the 
author’s own candles,’ was the first of his more elaborate 
productions that was published under Thackeray’s own 
name (1847-48.) It placed him in the highest rank of 
the masters of English fiction, and though some of his later 
works at once attained a wider circulation, and confirmed 
their author as a classic of the purest style, and an essayist 
of the most elegant satire, the Vanity Fair is esteemed 
among competent critics as his master-piece. The Edin¬ 
burgh Review, long after public opinion had been made 
upon the merits of this novel, and many editions had been 
exhausted, described it as 1 one of the most remarkable 
books of this age,—a book which is as sure of immortality 
as ninety-nine hundredths of modern novels are sure of 
annihilation.’ Becky Sharp, the heroine of the story, is the 
best drawn of all his female characters, her love of con¬ 
spiracy and her repulsive, uniform selfishness not abating 
a jot from the naturalness of the creation. It has been 
objected to Thackeray that he fails in general in the 
portraiture of women. The objection is perhaps a valid 
one. Mrs. Jameson, herself a distinguished writer, in 
alluding to this class of Thackeray’s delineations, says : 
“ Such women may exist, but to hold them up as examples 
of excellence, and fit objects of our best sympathies, is a 
fault, and proves a low standard in ethics and in art.” The 
description of the battle of Waterloo introduced in Vanity 
Fair , may be regarded in the department of prose as not 
inferior to Byron’s lines in Childe Harold on the same 
subject. They will ever be admired as companion-pictures 
of genius. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


379 


Thackeray was a voluminous author, leaving behind him 
twenty-five or thirty volumes of essays, poems, satirical 
papers, and novels. The greatest of his works, in addition 
to Vanity Fair , are Pendennis, Esmond , The Newcomes , 
The Virginians, and his Lectures on the English Humor¬ 
ists of the Eighteenth Century and the Four Georges. 

Thackeray died suddenly from effusion on the brain, in 
1863. A monument to his memory has been erected in 
the Poets’ Corner of Westminster Abbey. 

The Battle of Waterloo. 

All that day, from mQrning until past sunset, the cannon ceased 
not to roar. It was dark when the cannonading stopped all of 
[on] a sudden. 

All of us have read of what occurred during that interval. 
The tale is in every Englishman’s mouth; and you and I, who 
were children when the great battle was won and lost, are never 
tired of hearing and recounting the history of that famous action. 
Its remembrance rankles still in the bosoms of millions of the 
countrymen of those brave men who lost the day. They pant 
for an opportunity of revenging that humiliation ; and if a con¬ 
test, ending in a victory on their part, should ensue, elating them 
in their turn, and leaving its cursed legacy of hatred and rage 
behind to us, there is no end to the so-called glory and shame, 
and to the alternations of successful and unsuccessful murder, in 
which two high-spirited nations might engage. Centuries hence, 
we Frenchmen and Englishmen might be boasting and killing 
each other still, carrying out bravely the Devil’s code of honor. 

All our friends took their share, and fought like men in the 
great field. All day long, whilst the women were praying ten 
miles away, the lines of the dauntless English infantry were 
receiving and repelling the furious charges of the French horse¬ 
men. Guns which were heard at Brussels were ploughing up 
their ranks, and comrades falling, and ’the resolute survivors 
closing in. Towards evening, the attack of the French, repeated 
and resisted so bravely, slackened in its fury. They had other 
foes besides the British to engage, or were preparing for a final 


380 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


onset. It came at last; the columns of the Imperial Guard 
marched up the hill of Saint Jean, at length and at once to sweep 
the English from the height which they had maintained all day 
and spite of all; unscared by the thunder of the artillery, which 
hurled death from the English line,—the dark rolling column 
pressed on and up the hill. It seemed almost to crest the emi¬ 
nence, when it began to waver and falter. Then it stopped, still 
facing the shot. Then, at last, the English troops rushed from 
the post from which no enemy had been able to dislodge them, 
and the Guard turned and fled. 

No more firing was heard at Brussels,—the pursuit rolled miles 
away. Darkness came down on the field and city ; and Amelia 
was praying for George, who was lying on his face, dead, with a 
bullet through his heart. 

Swift’s Torture of Soul. 

From The English Humorists. 

It is my belief that Swift suffered frightfully from the con¬ 
sciousness of his own scepticism, and that he had bent his pride 
so far down as to put his apostasy out to hire. The paper left 
behind him, called Thoughts on Religion , is merely a set of excuses 
for not professing disbelief. He says of his sermons that he 
preached pamphlets : they have scarce a Christian characteristic ; 
they might he preached from the steps of a synagogue, or the floor 
of a mosque, or the box of a coffee-house almost. There is little 
or no cant—he is too great and too proud for that; and, in so far 
as the badness of his sermons goes, he is honest. But having put 
that cassock on, it poisoned him ; he was strangled in his bands. 
He goes through life, tearing, like a man possessed with a devil. 
Like Abudah in the Arabian story, he is always looking out for 
the Fury, and knows that the night will come and the inevitable 
hag with it. What a night, my God, it was 1 what a lonely rage 
and long agony—what a vulture that tore the heart of that giant! 
It is awful to think of the sufferings of this great man. Through 
life he always seems alone, somehow. Goethe was so. I cannot 
fancy Shakspeare otherwise. The giants must live apart. The 
kings can have no company. But this man suffered so; and 







THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


381 


deserved so to suffer. One hardly reads anywhere of such a 
pain. The sceva indignaiio of which he spoke as lacerating his 
heart, and which he dares inscribe on his tombstone—as if the 
wretch who lay under that stone waiting God’s judgment had a 
right to be angry—breaks out from him in a thousand pages of 
his writings, and tears and rends him. 


NICHOLAS PATRICK WISEMAN, 1802-1865. 

N. P. Wiseman, Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster, 
was born in Seville, Spain, in 1802. His father’s family 
were of English and his mother’s of Irish origin. He was 
educated at St. Cuthbert’s College, Ushaw; where, for 
nearly eight years, he applied himself closely to his studies, 
and laid the foundation of that profound and varied 
erudition which gave him such distinction in after life. 
In 1818, he went to Rome as a student of the English 
College, then but recently established. Here he soon 
attracted attention by the publication of his first book, 
Horse Syriacse, a treatise on Oriental languages—a study 
in which he was intensely interested. On account of his 
extraordinary abilities he was not allowed to return to 
England at once; but, after being ordained priest in his 
twenty-third year, he was created professor of the Roman 
University. He filled in succession the offices of Vice- 
Rector and Rector of the English College. In 1835, he 
delivered his famous Lectures on the Connection between 
Science and Revealed, Religion; and, the following year, 
his Lectures on the Principal Doctrines and Practices of 
the Catholic Church. The papal Bull of 1850 having 
reestablished the Roman Catholic hierarchy in England, 
Dr. Wiseman was appointed archbishop of Westminster 
and created Cardinal. In England a wild burst of excite¬ 
ment followed these acts; but the cardinal lost no time 
in pouring oil on the troubled waters by publishing his 


382 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Appeal to the Reason and Good Feeling of the English 
people on the subject of the Catholic Hierarchy. To 
argument he replied with argument; for taunts he gave 
back words of conciliation. Although the Ecclesiastical 
Titles Bill passed both Houses, and received the Royal 
assent, it has been a dead letter ever since. 

His long residence in Rome had familiarized him with 
the most exquisite productions of painters, sculptors, and 
architects; and, in 1852, he lectured at Leeds to an 
immense audience, and proved that nowhere had science 
flourished more, or originated more sublime or useful dis¬ 
coveries, than when it had been pursued under the influence 
of the Roman Catholic Religion. Ilis lectures delivered 
in Manchester and Liverpool in 1853, On the Connection 
between the Arts of Design and the Arts of Production , 
and On the Highways of peaceful Commerce as being 
the Highways of Art, show great learning and a wonderful 
versatility of mind. In another department of literature, 
he composed Fabiola, or the Church of the Catacombs, 
of which an able American reviewer gives the following 
appreciation : “ It is a most charming book, a truly 

popular work, and alike pleasing to the scholar and the 
general reader. It is the first work of the kind that we 
have read in any language in which truly pious and devout 
sentiment, and the loftiest and richest imagination, are so 
blended, so fused together, that the one never jars on the 
other.” * 

After his elevation to the cardinalate, three volumes of 
his contributions to the Dublin Review were published 
under the title of Essays on Various Subjects. “ They 
constitute one of the richest contributions that have 
recently been made to our English Catholic literature. 


♦Brownson’s Rev., 1855. 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


383 


They bear to us the marks of a varied and extensive 
erudition, which we seldom look for out of Italy or Ger¬ 
many; are written in a style of singular freshness, vivacity 
and force, ease and dignity, which may well be studied as 
a model.” * 

Cardinal Wiseman wrote many other works, among 
which we may mention his Recollections of the Last Four 
Popes , and of Rome in their Times (1858), a picturesque 
and popular book ; his Sermons, Lectures , and Speeches , 
delivered during a tour in Ireland (1859); Rome and the 
Catholic Episcopate . He also found opportunity to 
write some little plays, chiefly for the use of Roman 
Catholic colleges. He was preparing a lecture on Shaks- 
peare to be delivered before the Royal Society, when he 
was seized with his last illness in 1865. 

Cardinal Wiseman wrote in a clear and polished style, 
sometimes too much in the florid Italian manner; but often 
too with a cahn eloquence peculiarly suited to the English 
temperament. He was a profound linguist, having a 
perfect acquaintance with all the European and most of the 
Oriental languages. He was a man of great achievements 
and still greater aims. To his levees during the season in 
York-place men of all creeds and nationalities came, and 
for all he had a kindly greeting and cordial conversation. 
No other man probably was ever more earnest in devotion 
to his religion ; no other would have been prepared to make 
greater sacrifices in its behalf. In his last illness, calling 
around him the Canons of his Chapter, he made a profes¬ 
sion of faith and resigned himself to death. His name 
will remain indissolubly connected with the history of 
Roman Catholicity in England. 


* Brownson’s Rev., 1853. 






384 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Martydom of St. Pancratius. 

Such was the attitude, and such was the privilege of our heroic 
youth. The mob was frantic, as they saw one wild beast after 
another careering madly round him, roaring, and lashing its sides 
with its tail, while he seemed placed in a charmed circle, which 
they could not approach. A furious bull, let loose upon him, 
dashed madly forward, with his neck bent down, then stopped 
suddenly, as though he had struck his head against a wall, pawed 
the ground, and scattered the dust around him, bellowing fiercely. 

“Provoke him, thou coward!” roared out, still louder, the 
enraged emperor. 

Pancratius awoke as from a trance, and waving his arms, ran 
towards his enemy; but the savage brute, as if a lion had been 
rushing on him, turned round, and ran away towards the entrance, 
where meeting his keeper, he tossed him high into the air. All 
were disconcerted except the brave youth, who had resumed his 
attitude of prayer; when one of the crowd shouted out: “ He 
has a charm round his neck ; he is a sorcerer !” The whole mul¬ 
titude reechoed the cry, till the emperor, having commanded 
silence, called out to him, “ Take that amulet from thy neck, 
and cast it from thee, or it shall be done more roughly for 
thee.” 

“Sire,” replied the youth, with a musical voice, that rang 
sweetly through the hushed amphitheatre, “ it is no charm that I 
wear, but a memorial of my father, who iri this very place made 
gloriously the same confession which I now humbly make ; I am 
a Christian ; and for love of Jesus Christ, God and man, I gladly 
give my life. Do not take from me this only legacy, which I 
have bequeathed, richer than I received it, to another. Try once 
more ; it was a panther that gave him his crown ; perhaps it 
will bestow the same on me.” 

Por an instant there was a dead silence; the multitude seemed 
softened, won. The graceful form of the gallant youth, his now 
inspired countenance, the thrilling music of his voice, the intre¬ 
pidity of his speech, and his generous self-devotion to his cause, 
had wrought upon that cowardly herd. Pancratius felt it, and 
his heart quailed before their mercy more than before their rage; 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


385 


\ 


he had promised himself heaven that day; was he to be disap¬ 
pointed ? Tears started into his eyes, as stretching forth his arms 
once more in the form of a cross, he called aloud, in a tone that 
again vibrated through every heart: “ To-day; oh yes, to-day, 

most blessed Lord, is the appointed day of Thy coming. Tarry 
not longer; enough has Thy power been shown in me to them 
that believe not in Thee; show now Thy mercy to me who in 
Thee believe ! ” 

“ The panther ! ” shouted out a voice. “ The panther I ” 
responded twenty. “ The panther! ” thundered forth a hun¬ 
dred thousand, in a chorus like the roaring of an avalanche. A 
cage started up, as if by magic, from the midst of the sand, and 
as it rose, its side fell down, and freed the captive of the desert. 
With one graceful bound the elegant savage gained its liberty ; 
and, though enraged by darkness, confinement, and hunger, it 
seemed almost playful, as it leaped and turned about, frisked and 
gambolled noiselessly on the sand. 

At last it caught sight of its prey. All its feline cunning and 
cruelty seemed to return, and to conspire together in animating 
the cautious and treacherous movements of its velvet-clothed 
frame. The whole amphitheatre was as silent as if it had been a 
hermit’s dell, while every eye was intent, watching the stealthy 
approaches of the sleek brute to its victim. Pancratius was still 
i standing in the same place, facing the emperor, apparently so 
absorbed in higher thoughts, as not to heed the movements of his. 
! enemy. The panther had stolen round him, as if disdaining to 
j attack him except in front. Crouching upon its breast, slowly 
! advancing one paw before another, it had gained its measured 
distance ; and there it lay for some moments of breathless sus¬ 
pense. A deep snarling growl, an elastic spring through the 
air, and it was seen gathered up like a leech, with its hind feet 
on the chest, and its fangs and fore claws on the throat of the 
martyr. 

He stood erect for a moment, brought his right hand to his 
mouth, and looking up at Sebastian with a smile, directed to him, 
by a graceful wave of his arm, the last salutation of his lips—and 
i fell. The arteries of the neck had been severed, and the slumber 
y of martyrdom at once settled on his eyelids. 


33 




386 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


CIIAKLES DICKENS, 1812-1870. 

Charles Dickens, whom Forster calls ‘ the most popular 
novelist of the century and one of the greatest humorists 
that England has produced,’ was born at Landport, Ports¬ 
mouth, in 1812. 

The early life of Dickens was one of extreme poverty. 
His father, for a time, was confined in the Debtors’ Prison, 
and he himself was obliged to become a poor little drudge, 
and eke out a scanty living in a blacking ware-house by 
covering and labelling the pots of paste-blacking, at six 
shillings a week. Afterwards he went to school for two or 
three years. He became a lawyer’s clerk with the intention 
of fitting himself for the legal profession ; but, discovering 
no taste for the law, he abandoned it for the career of Par¬ 
liamentary reporter for some of the leading journals in the 
great capital. It was during these years of newspaper life 
that the half-educated young Dickens laid the foundations ! 
for his after-career as an author. As a reporter he dis¬ 
ciplined his habits of industry, enlarged the circle of his 
knowledge, and attained very early to his mental maturity. 
“To the wholesome training of severe newspaper work 
when I was a very young man,” he said in his speech to 
the New York editors in 1868, “ I constantly refer my first 
successes.” 

His first attempt at authorship was made in the Old 
Monthly Magazine for 1834. In these contributions he 
first used the signature Boz, a nickname he had given to 
his youngest brother Augustus, which was a corruption of 
Moses (when spoken through the nose) in the Vicar of 
Wakefield, He continued his Sketches in auother paper, 
The Evening Chronicle, during 1835. In the following 
year, the Sketches , illustrated by Cruikshank, were brought 
out in two volumes, and their author at once became 







TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


38T 


famous. Though inferior to some of his later productions, 
this book presents intensely vivid pictures of London 
middle and low life. The realistic tendency is unhappily 
kept up in all his stories. The Sketches are sprightly 
with fun and discernment of character, and the general 
handling is both easy and skilful. The rapidity of his pen 
was remarkable. The Pickwick Papers followed, and 
before that was half finished, Oliver Twist was already 
begun,—the numbers of each coming out simultaneously. 
The success of Pickwick was unexampled in English lit¬ 
erature. It appeared in numbers, and after the first two 
or three, it was in the hands of everybody in London from 
the peer to the cabman. Pickwick chintzes were dis¬ 
played in linen-drapers’ windows, and Weller corduroys 
at the shops of tailors. Of the first number four hundred 
were printed; of the fifteenth, more than forty thousand. 
Oliver Twist maintained the prestige of Pickwick ; but in 
the Life of Grimaldi, the famous clown, there was a 
falling off. It was less in Dickens’ line, and the critics 
handled it severely. Nicholas Nickleby followed in serial 
form, the first paper selling, on the first day of its appear¬ 
ance, to the astonishing number of nearly 50,000 copies. 
Barnaby Badge and The Old Curiosity Shop came next, 
delighting everybody. Lord Jeffrey extravagantly ad¬ 
mired Little Nell, in the latter story. 

Dickens visited the United States in 1842, and received 
a cordial welcome. He had put his heart on an ihter- 
national copy-right law ; for all Americans read him, and 
he justly held it was but right that those who reaped the 
fruits of his labor and triumphs, should be compelled to 
give him at least a small portion of their easily-earned 
gains. But Congress refused to pass such a law, and the 
dispositions to be friendly with which Dickens evidently 
came among us, were embittered against the Americans, 


388 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


and found vent in the intemperate manner of his next two 
works, American Notes and Martin Ghuzzlewit. He 
visited Italy in 1844, spending a year there. On his return 
to London he founded the Daily Neivs, and published in 
it his so-called Picture of Italy. Both the style and the 
matter were below Dickens’s standard. His other principal 
works are Dombey and Son, David Copper field, his finest 
production, Bleak House, The Child’s History of England, 
Christmas Tales, Little Dorrit, Hard Times, A Tale of 
Two Cities, Great Expectations, and Our Mutual Friend. 
He had begun a new story, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, 
when cut off almost instantly by death. The merits of 
Dickens’s novels are well known and appreciated, and we 
need not insist on them. But we may ask ourselves : Is 
their influence on society of such a character as to deserve 
unlimited praise ? On this important question we shall 
quote the opinions of two celebrated Reviews. “ Mr. 
Dickens,” says the North British Review, “makes his low 
characters almost always vulgar. ... In the next place, 
the good characters of his novels do not seem to have a 
wholesome moral tendency. The reason is, that many of 
them—all the author’s favorites—exhibit an excellence 
flowing from constitution and temperament, and not from 
the influence of moral or religious motive. They act from 
impulse, not from principle.” * 

Starting from the fact that Dickens appeared before the 
public as a preacher whose ‘mission’ it was to correct the 
vices of society, and inculcate sound principles, The Dublin 
Review is led to the following remarks : 14 He was certainly 
a moral writer, and he did laud the household virtues; but 
there is a higher aspect of morality, one in which Catholic 
readers are bound to regard every book which professes to 


*N. B. Rev., vol. IV. 



THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 389 

deal with the condition of man; and, so regarded, Mr. 
Dickens’s works are as false as any of those of the undis- 
guisedly materialistic writers of the day. He cried ‘ Peace, 
peace, where there is no peace ’; he vaunted the quack 
nostrums of good fellowship and sentimental tenderness, of 
human institutions, and the natural virtues, as remedies 
for sin, sorrow, and the weariness of life. . . . Can any 
writer, however amiable, moral, wise, or witty, be quite 
harmless, who departs so utterly from the truth—who leads 
the mind of his readers so far from the ‘fountain opened 
for sin and uncleanness,’ and from every source of super¬ 
natural enlightenment ? ” * 

Character of a Yorkshire Schoolmaster. 

Mr. Squeers’s appearance was not prepossessing. He had but 
one eye, and the popular prejudice runs in favor of two. The 
eye he had, was unquestionably useful, but decidedly not orna¬ 
mental : being of a greenish grey, and in shape resembling the 
fan-light of a street door. The blank side of his face was much 
wrinkled and puckered up, which gave him a very sinister 
appearance, especially when he smiled, at which times his expres¬ 
sion bordered cl'osely on the villanous. His hair was very flat 
and shiny, save at the ends, where it was brushed stifly up from 
the forehead, which assorted well with his harsh voice and coarse 
manner. He was about two or three and fifty, and a trifle below 
the middle size ; he wore a white neckerchief with long ends, and 
a suit of scholastic black ; but his coatsleeves being a great deal 
too long, and his trousers a great deal too short, he appeared ill 
at ease in his clothes, and as if he were in a perpetual state of 
astonishment at finding himself so respectable. 

Mr. Squeers was standing in a box by one of the coffee-room 
fire-places, fitted with one such table as is usually seen in coffee- 
rooms, and two of extraordinary shapes and dimensions made to 


33 * 


* April, 1871, pp. 318 and 319. 





390 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


suit the angles of the partition. In a corner of the seat was a 
very small deal trunk, tied round with a scanty piece of cord ; 
and on the trunk was perched—his lace-up half-boots and corduroy 
trousers dangling in the air—a diminutive boy, with shoulders 
drawn up to his ears, and his hands planted on his knees, who 
glanced timidly at the schoolmaster, from time to time, with 
evident dread and apprehension. 

“ Half-past three," muttered Mr. Squeers, turning from the 
window, and looking sulkily at the coffee-room clock. “ There 
will be nobody here to-day." 

Much vexed by this reflection, Mr. Squeers looked at the little 
boy to see whether he was doing anything he could beat him for. 
As he happened not to be doing anything at all, he merely boxed 
his ears, and told him not to do it again. 

“At Midsummer," muttered Mr. Squeers, resuming his com¬ 
plaint, “ I took down ten boys ; ten twentys is two hundred 
pound. I go back at eight o’clock to-morrow morning, and have 
got only three—three oughts is an ought—three twos is six—sixty 
pounds. What’s come of all the boys ? what’s parents got in 
their heads? what does it all mean? " 

Here the little boy on the top of the trunk gave a violent 
sneeze. 

“Halloa, sir!" growled the schoolmaster, turning round. 
“ What’s that, sir? ” 

“ Nothing, please sir," said the little boy. 

“ Nothing, sir ! ” exclaimed Mr. Squeers. 

“ Please sir, I sneezed," rejoined the boy, trembling till the 
little trunk shook under him. 

“ Oh! sneezed, did you ? " retorted Mr. Squeers. “ Then what 
did you say ‘ nothing ’ for, sir ? " 

In default of a better answer to this question, the little boy 
screwed a couple of knuckles into each of his eyes and began to 
cry, wherefore Mr. Squeers knocked him off the trunk with a 
blow on one side of his face, and knocked him on again with a 
blow on the other. 

u Wait till I get you down into Yorkshire, my young gentle¬ 
man," said Mr. Squeers, “ and then I’ll give you the rest." 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


391 


Death of David Cofperfield’s mother told by his nurse 

Pegqotty. 

“ She was never well,” said Peggotty, “ for a long time. She 
was uncertain in her mind, and not happy. When her baby was 
born, I thought at first she would get better, but she was more 
delicate, and sunk a little every day. She used to like to sit alone 
before her baby came, and then she cried; but afterwards she 
used to sing to it—so soft, that I once thought, when I heard her, 
it was like a voice up in the air, that was rising away. 

I think she got to be more timid, and more frightened-like, 
of late ; and that a hard word was like a blow to her. But she 
was always the same to me. She never changed to her foolish 
Peggotty, didn’t my sweet girl.” 

Here Peggotty stopped, and softly beat upon my hand a little 
while. 

“ The last time that I saw her like her own old self, was the 
night when you came home, my dear. The day you went away, 
she said to me, ‘ I never shall see my pretty darling again. 
Something tells me so, that tells the truth, I know. 7 

She tried to hold up after that; and many a time, when they 
told her she was thoughtless and light-hearted, made believe to be 
so; but it was all a by-gone then. She never told her husband 
what she had told me—she was afraid of saying it to anybody 
else—till one night, a little more than a week before it happened, 
when she said to him : ‘ My dear, I think I am dying.’ 

‘ It’s off my mind now, Peggotty,’ she told me, when I laid 
her in her bed that night. ‘ He will believe it more and more, 
poor fellow, every day for a few days to come ; and then it will 
be past. I am very tired. If this is sleep, sit by me while I 
sleep : don’t leave me. God bless both my children ! God pro¬ 
tect and keep my fatherless boy! ’ 

On the last night, in the evening, she kissed me, and said: 
‘ If my baby should die too, Peggotty, please let them lay him in 
my arms, and bury us together.’ (It was done; for the poor 
lamb lived but a day beyond her.) ‘ Let my dearest boy go with 
us to our resting-place,' she said, ‘and tell him that his mother, 
when she lay here, blessed him not once, but a thousand times.’ ” 

Another silence followed this, and another gentle beating on 
my hand. 



392 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


“ It was pretty far in the night,” said Peggotty, “ when she 
asked me for some drink; and when she had taken it, gave me 
such a patient smile, the dear !—so beautiful! 

Daybreak had come, and the sun was rising, when she said to 
me, how kind and considerate Mr. Copperfield had always been 
to her, and how he had borne with her, and told her, when she 
doubted herself, that a loving heart was better and stronger than 
wisdom, and that he was a happy man in hers. ‘ Peggotty, my 
dear,’ she said then, ‘put me nearer to you,’ for she was very 
weak. ‘Lay your good arm underneath my neck,’ she said, ‘ and 
turn me to you, for your face is going far off, and I want it to be 
near.’ I put it as she asked ; and, oh, Davy ! the time had come 
when my first parting words to you were true—when she was 
glad to lay her poor head on her stupid cross old Peggotty’s arm 
—and she died like a child that had gone to sleep ! ” 

Dr. Chillip. 

Dr. Chillip was the meekest of his sex, the mildest of little 
men. He sidled in and out of a room, to take up the less space. 
He walked as softly as the ghost in Hamlet, and more slowly. 
He carried his head on one side, partly in modest depreciation of 
himself, partly in modest propitiation of everybody else. It is 
nothing to say that he hadn’t a word to throw at a dog. He 
couldn’t have thrown a word at a mad dog. He might have 
offered him one gently, or half a one, or a fragment of one: for 
he spoke as slowly as he walked ; but he wouldn’t have been rude 
to him, and he couldn’t have been quick with him, for any 
earthly consideration. 

THOMAS CARLYLE, 1795- 

Thomas Carlyle, the 1 Censor of his age,’ one of the 
most profound and independent thinkers of the' day, was 
born in Dumfriesshire, Scotland, in the year 1795. After 
preliminary instruction at Annan, he was sent, in 1810, to 
the University of Edinburgh, where he remained for seven 
or eight years, distinguishing himself by devotion to math¬ 
ematical studies. For about two years he taught math- 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 393 

ematics at a school; and, on relinquishing this post, he 
devoted himself to literature as a profession. In 1824, he 
contributed to Brewster’s Edinburgh Encyclopedia the 
articles Montesquieu , Montaigne, Nelson, Norfolk, and 
those on the two Pitts; and to the Edinburgh Review, an 
essay on Joanna Baillie’s Plays of the Passions. In the 
same year, he completed a translation of Legendre y s 
Geometry, and published his translation of Goethe’s 
Wilhelm Meister, a work which betrayed a direction of 
reading destined to influence materially his future career. 
His Life of Schiller was published in numbers in the 
London Magazine. His Sartor Resartus (The Patcher 
Repatched), first published in Frazer’s Magazine, appeared 
in book form in 1834. “The work,” says Alexander H. 
Everett, “is a sort of philosophical romance, in which the 
author undertakes to give, in the form of a review of a 
German treatise on dress and a notice on the life of the 
writer, his own opinions upon matters and things in gen¬ 
eral. The volume contains, under a quaint and singular 
form, a great deal of deep thought, sound principle, and 
fine writing. The only thing about the work, tending to 
prove that it is what it purports to be—a commentary on a 
real German treatise—is the style, which is a sort of 
Babylonish dialect, not destitute, it is true, of richness, 
vigor, and at times a sort of felicity of expression ; but 
very strongly tinged throughout with the-peculiar idiom of 
the German language.” * In 1837, he published The 
French Revolution, 3 vols., 8vo., his ablest work and one 
which produced a profound impression on the public mind. 
The first perusal of it forms a sort of era in a'man’s life ; 
and fixes forever in his memory the ghastly panorama of 
the Revolution, its scenes, and actors. 


*N. American Review, 1835. 



394 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Then appeared in succession Chartism; six lectures on 
Heroes , Hero-Worship, and The Heroic in Poetry; Past 
and Present; Letters and Speeches of Olieer Cromwell , 
icith Elucidations; Latter-Day Pamphlets; and The 
History of Friedrich IT., called, Frederick the Great. 
All these works, particularly the last, fully exhibit the 
authors idiosyncrasies—strong prejudices in every depart¬ 
ment of thought, provoking arrogance, unwarranted extrav¬ 
agance of diction, combined with pictures the most vivid, 
and passages full of humor, pathos, and eloquence. 

His avowed German leanings are to many persons a 
matter of great annoyance, not so much perhaps because 
German must be wrong, as because national feelings will 
not tolerate foreign importations of any kind. 


Portrait or Frederick the Great. 

He is a king every inch of him, though without the trappings 
of a king. Presents himself in a Spartan simplicity of vesture : 
no crown, hut an old military cocked hat—generally old, or 
trampled and kneaded into an absolute softness if new ; no sceptre 
but one like Agammemnon’s, a walking-stick cut from the woods, 
which serves also as a riding-stick (with which he hits the horse 
‘between the ears,’ say authors); and for royal robes, a mere 
soldier’s blue coat with red facings,—coat likely to be old, and 
sure to have a good deal of Spanish snutf on the breast of it; rest 
of the apparel dim, unobtrusive in color or cut, ending in high 
over-knee military boots, which may be brushed (and, I hope, 
kept soft with an underhand suspicion of oil), but are not permit¬ 
ted to be blackened or varnished,—Day and Martin with their 
soot-pots forbidden to approach. The man is not of God-like 
physiognomy, any more than of imposing stature or custom : 
close-shut mouth with thin lips, prominent jaws and nose, reced¬ 
ing brow, by no mfeans of Olympian height; head, however, is of 
long form, and has superlative grey eyes in it. Not what is called 
a beautiful man; nor yet, by all appearance, what is called a 
happy. On the contrary, the face bears evidence of many sorrows, 




THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


395 


as the}'' arc termed, of much hard labor done in this world, and 
seems to anticipate nothing but more still coming. Quiet stoicism 
capable enough of what joys there were, but not expecting any 
worth mention ; great unconscious and some conscious pride, well 
tempered with a cheery mockery of humor, are written on that 
old face, which carries its chin well forward, in spite of the slight 
stoop about the neck ; snuffy nose, rather flung into the air, under 
its old cocked hat, like an old snuffy lion on the watch; and such 
a pair of eyes as no man, or lion, or lynx of that century bore 
elsewhere, according to all the testimony we have. “ Those 
eyes,” says Mirabeau, “ which, at the bidding of his great soul, 
fascinated you with seduction or with terror.” Most excellent, 
potent, brilliant eyes, swift-darting as the stars, steadfast as the 
sun ; gray, we said, of the azure gray color; large enough, not of 
glaring size; the habitual expression of them vigilance and 
penetrating sense, rapidity resting on depth, which is an excel¬ 
lent combination, and gives us the motion of a lambent outer 
radiance, springing from some great inner sea of light and fire 
in the man. The voice, if he speak to you, is of similar physi¬ 
ognomy : clear, melodious, and sonorous ; all tones are in it, from 
that of ingenious inquiry, graceful sociality, light flowing banter 
(rather prickly for most part), up to definite word of command, 
up to desolating word of rebuke and reprobation. 


JOHN HENRY NEWMAN, 1801- 

Jolm H. Newman, the most eminent living writer of 
England, was born in London in 1801. His father was a 
banker. Young Newman was first placed at school under 
Hev. Dr. Nicholas at Ealing, and afterward was entered 
at Trinity College, Oxford, where he gained a scholarship 
in 1818. He was elected a Fellow of Oriel College in 
1822. In 1824 he received ordination in the English 
Church, on the following year became Vice-Principal of 
Alban Hall, and in 182G Tutor in Oriel College. He was 
also, about this time, Yicar of St. Mary’s, Oxford, and 
one of the Select University Preachers. In the year 1815 


396 


BRITISH LITERATURE, 


he renounced Protestantism and was received into the 
Catholic Church. After a short stay at Oscott with Dr. 
Wiseman, he was called to Rome, whence two years later, 
in 1848, he was sent by Pope Pius IX. to found the Eng¬ 
lish branch of the Oratory of St. Philip Neri, at Birming¬ 
ham. He was rector of the Catholic University of Dublin 
from 1852 to 1860. In the latter year, having resigned 
the rectorship, he returned to Birmingham where, as 
superior of the Oratory, he has continued to reside till 
the present time. “ 

Dr. Newman has been, both in his writings and his per¬ 
sonal character, an object of peculiar interest to all classes 
of men. As a boy, he inspired almost love in the cold 
bosom of Dr., afterward Archbishop, Whately, who influ¬ 
enced Newman’s first views. When he became acquainted 
with Pusey, Hurrell Froude, and Keble, at Oxford, Whate¬ 
ly’s influence was thrown off, and the more genial asso¬ 
ciation of these new friends was warmly cultivated. The 
young tutor in Oriel was the leader, being abler than his 
contemporaries, (great men though they were,) and quite 
sufficient of himself to bend the bow of Ulysses. The 
Tractarian movement, actually begun by Keble, was ad¬ 
vanced more powerfully by Newman, for whom it was only 
a stage, not a resting place. Mr. Disraeli has asserted, in 
one of his recent works, that the revolution in religious 
thought which Dr. Newman has effected, is the most 
momentous one in the religious history of England for 
the past three hundred years. 

Dr. Newman’s works are marked by a discursive range 
of thought, a depth of learning, a felicity of expression, 
and a sort of ribbed strength of style, which he displays 
in the several branches of philosophy, theology, patristic 
commentary, University education, romance, and poetry. 
In his sketch of Cicero, he has unconsciously described 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 397 

himself, where he says: “ Terence and Lucretius had 
cultivated simplicity; Cotta, Brutus, and Calvus, had 
attempted strength ; but Cicero rather made a language 
than a style, yet not so •much by the invention as by the 
combination of words. . . . Ilis great art lies in the appli¬ 
cation of existing materials, in converting the very disad¬ 
vantages of the language into beauties, in enriching it with 
circumlocutions and metaphors, in pruning it of harsh and 
uncouth expressions, in systematizing the structure of a 
sentence. This is that copia dicendi which gained Cicero 
the high testimony of Caesar to his inventive powers, and 
which, we may add, constitutes him the greatest master of 
composition that the world has seen.” 

Of the thirty-five volumes published by Dr. Newman, 
twelve comprise his Sermons, eleven are mostly polemical. 
The other twelve embrace the following: Historical 
Sketches, in which are found several of his Lectures on 
Universities, those on The Turks, together with his essays 
on Cicero, Apollonius of Tyana, and some of the Fathers 
of the Church; Idea of a University; Callista, a Sketch 
of the Third Century, in the form of a story ; Loss and 
Gain, another story, illustrative of the religious spirit 
existing in England, particularly at Oxford, forty years 
ago; Verses on Various Occasions, containing the won¬ 
derful Dream of Gerontius; Apologia pro Vita sud, after¬ 
ward entitled History of My Religious Opinions; and 
finally, his Essay in Aid of a Grammar of Assent, the 
most philosophical of his works. 

Dr. Newman still writes with all his wonted vigor, and, 
although in his seventy-fifth year, his recent reply to Mr. 
Gladstone’s extraordinary and unaccountable attack on the 
Council of the Vatican and the Decree of Infallibility, is 
a triumph of controversial writing quite equal to his Letters 
to Rev. Charles Kingsley of a dozen years ago. 

34 




393 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


St. John Chrysostom as an Orator. 

From the Historical Sketches , Yol. III. 

Chrysostom had his own rostra , his own curia ; it was the Holy 
Temple, where his eloquence gained for him victories not less 
real, and more momentous, than the detection and overthrow of 
Catiline. Great as was his gift of oratory, it was not by the 
fertility of his imagination, or the splendor of his diction, that 
he gained the surname of ‘Mouth of Gold.’ "VYe shall be very 
wrong if we suppose that fine expressions, or rounded periods, or 
figures of speech, were the credentials by which he claimed to 
be the first doctor of the East. His oratorical power was but 
the instrument, by which he readily, gracefully, adequately 
expressed,—expressed without effort and with felicity,—the keen 
feelings, the living ideas, the earnest practical lessons which he 
had to communicate to his hearers. He spoke, because his heart, 
his head, were brimful of things to speak about. His elocution 
corresponded to that strength and flexibility of limb, that quick¬ 
ness of eye, hand, and foot, by which a man excels in manly 
games or in mechanical skill. It would be a great mistake, in 
speaking of it, to ask whether it was Attic or Asiatic, terse or 
flowing, when its distinctive praise was that it was natural. His 
unrivalled charm, as that of every really eloquent man, lies in 
his singleness of purpose, his fixed grasp of his aim, his noble 
earnestness. A bright, cheerful, gentle soul; a sensitive heart, a 
temperament open to emotion and impulse ; and all this elevated, 
refined,. transformed by the touch of heaven,—such was St. 
John Chrysostom ; winning followers, riveting affections, by his 
sweetness, frankness, and neglect of self. In his labors, in his 
preaching, he thought of others only. 


Intellectual Education Preeminently a Discipline in 
Accuracy of Mind. 

From the Idea of a University. 

It has often been observed that, when the eyes of the infant 
first open upon the world, the reflected rays of light which strike 
them from the myriad of surrounding objects, present to him no 
image, but a medley of colors and shadows. They do not form 





TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


399 


into a whole; they do not rise into foregrounds and melt into 
distances; they do not divide into groups ; they do not coalesce 
into unities ; they do not combine into persons; but each par¬ 
ticular hue and tint stands by itself, wedged in amid a thousand 
others upon the vast and flat .mosaic, having no intelligence, and 
conveying no story, any more than the wrong side of some rich 
tapestry. The little babe stretches out his arms an<i fingers, as 
if to grasp or to fathom the many-colored vision ; and thus he 
gradually learns the connection of part with part, separates what 
moves from what is stationary, watches the coming and going of 
figures, masters the idea of shape and of perspective, calls in the 
information conveyed through the other senses to assist him in 
his mental process, and thus gradually converts a kaleidoscope 
into a picture. The first view was the more splendid, the second 
the more real; the former more poetical, the latter more philoso¬ 
phical. Alas ! What are we doing all through life, both as a 
necessity and as a duty, but unlearning the world’s poetry and 
attaining to its prose ! 

This is our education, as boys and as men, in the action of life, 
and in the closet or library ; in our affections, in our aims, in our 
hopes, and in our memories. But in like manner it is the educa¬ 
tion of our intellect; I say, that one main portion of intellectual 
education, of the labors of both school and university, is to remove 
the original dimness of the mind’s eye ; to strengthen and perfect 
its vision; to enable it to look out into the world right forward, 
steadily, and truly; to give the mind clearness, accuracy, pre¬ 
cision ; to enable it to use words aright, to understand what it 
says, to conceive justly what it thinks about, to abstract, Compare, 
analyze, divide, define, and reason, correctly. 

There is a particular science which takes these matters in hand, 
and it is called logic ; but it is not by logic, certainly not by logic 
alone, that the faculty I speak of is acquired. The infant does 
not learn to spell and read the hues upon his retina by any 
scientific rule ; nor does the student learn accuracy of thought 
by any manual or treatise. The instruction given him, of what¬ 
ever kind, if it be really instruction, is mainly, or at least, 
preeminently, this,—a discipline in accuracy of mind. 

Boys are always more or less inaccurate, and too many, or 
rather the majority, remain boys all their lives. When, for 
instance, I hear speakers at public meetings declaiming about 


400 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


‘large and enlightened views,’ or about ‘freedom of conscience,’ 
or about ‘ the Gospel ’, or any other popular subject of the day, I 
am far from denying that some among them know what they are 
talking about; but it would he satisfactory, in a particular case, 
to he sure of the fact; for it seems to me that those household 
words may stand in a man’s mind for a something or other, very 
glorious indeed, hut very misty, pretty much like the idea of 
‘ civilization ’ which floats before the mental vision of a Turk,— 
that is, if, when he interrupts his smoking to utter the word, he 
condescends to reflect whether it has any meaning at all. Again, 
a critic in a periodical dashes off, perhaps, his praise of a new 
work, as ‘talented, original, replete with intense interest, irresis¬ 
tible in argument, and, in the best sense of the word, a very 
readable hook ’;—can we really believe that he cares to attach 
any definite sense to the words of which he is so lavish? nay, 
that, if he had a habit of attaching sense to them, he could ever 
bring himself to so prodigal and wholesale an expenditure of 
them ? 

To a short-sighted person, colors run together and intermix, 
outlines disappear, blues and reds and yellows become russets or 
browns, the lamps or candles of an illumination spread into an 
unmeaning glare, or dissolve into a milky way. He takes up an 
eye-glass and the mist clears up ; every image stands out distinct, 
and the rays of light fall back upon their centres. It is this 
haziness of intellectual vision, which^is the malady of all classes 
of men by nature, of those who read and write and compare, quite 
as well as of those who cannot,—of all who have not had a really 
good education. Those who cannot either read or write may, 
nevertheless, be in the number of those who have remedied and 
got rid of it; those who can, are too often still under its power. 
It is an acquisition quite separate from miscellaneous information, 
or knowledge of books. 


ALEKED TENNYSON, 1810- 

Alfred Tennyson stands first among the living poets. 
He is the son of a clergyman of the Church of England, 
and was born at Somersby, Lincolnshire, in 1810. He was 
educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, where lie became 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 401 

acquainted with Arthur Henry Hallam, the historian’s son, 
whose death in 1833 furnished the text for the poet’s 
famous production In Memoriam. Tennyson has led a 
retired, student’s life, having resided for some years at 
Farringford House, Isle of Wight, and since 1869, at 
Petersfield, Hampshire. 

His first publication was made with his elder brother 
Charles in 1827. It was called Poems by Two Brothers , 
and appeared anonymously. Both Coleridge and Words¬ 
worth thought more favorably of Charles than Alfred after 
reading this volume. But Alfred soon developed into the 
greater poet. Ilis career was at first slofr, his early pro¬ 
ductions were not well received, and the critics found in 
them but little they admired. The effect on Tennyson 
was marked. For ten years he buried himself among 
his books, and was heard of no more during all that 
time by the public. He became a laborious student, 
a painstaking thinker and enquirer, with the great view 
of fitting himself for the career his talents and ambition 
impelled him to pursue. On his reappearance, he soared 
at once to the highest place in the poetical firmament. 
“ He is decidedly the first of our living poets,” said 
Wordsworth in 1845. In the year 1850, the Queen crea¬ 
ted him Poet-Laureate, a distinction eminently deserved. 
Oxford conferred the degree of D. C. L. on the Laureate 
in 1855. 

Tennyson draws from every source, Hellenic, Roman, 
Arabian, Mediaeval, Old English, etc. No other poet has 
written so beautifully of the much-maligned Middle Ages, 
whose chivalry has completely fascinated him and proved 
the chief theme of his muse. Many of his heroes and 
heroines are keep-sake characters, among the rarest gems 
of poetry. He has refined and polished exquisitely, and 
his verses possess wonderful melody. Locksley Hall, 
34* 


402 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Maud, The Princess, and In Memoriam, each enlarged 
the number of his readers and admirers. The greatest 
writers in various departments of letters united in sounding 
his praises. 

The work on which Tennyson’s fame will chiefly rest is 
the Arthurian epic, the Idylls of the King, now at last 
completed after twenty-five years of labor have been dedi¬ 
cated to them. Sir Walter Scott did much to shame the 
ignorance of a realistic age out of its unworthy sneers at 
the expense of the ‘Dark Ages’; but the muse of Ten¬ 
nyson in the Idylls of the King, has given the world one 
of the finest poems in the English language, whose inspira¬ 
tion is drawn from Mediaeval chivalry. The romance and 
proud loyalty to faith and sovereign of those little-under¬ 
stood days, are placed before the world in brilliant settings 
in the entire Arthurian series. The Idylls of the King, 
since the recent publication of Gareth and Lynette, take a 
sequence of development somewhat different from that of 
the time of writing. The poet intends that they should be 
read in the following order: 1st. The Coming of Arthur ; 
2d. Gareth and Lynette; 3d. Geraint and Enid; 4th. 
Merlin and Vivien; 5th. Lancelot and Elaine ; 6th. The 
Holy Grail; 7th. Pelleas and Etarre; 8th. Guinevere; 
9th. The Passing of Arthur; 10th. The Last Tourna¬ 
ment. There was a gap between King Arthur’s establish¬ 
ment of the Order of the Round Table and the story of 
Geraint and Enid; this gap is satisfactorily filled by the 
Idyll last issued of Gareth and Lynette, which serves as a 
stately corridor to the grand dome of poetry constructed 
by Mr. Tennyson for the succeeding Idylls. 

Tennyson is as musical as Mozart. One or two brief 
examples must suffice. Take the night of the final battle 
in the Morte d’Arthur. ‘ Deeply smitten through the 
helm ’ Arthur had fallen; his Knights are slain ; Sir Bedi- 





TIIE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


403 


vere, the last of them, bears the King gently to a chapel 
near the bloody field, where there was 

A broken chancel with a broken cross. 

Arthur is dying. His sword Excalibur, given to him by 
the sea-nymphs 

And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 

Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 

S.o flashed and fell the brand Excalibur : 

But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 

And caught him by the hilt, and brandished him 
Three times, and drew him under in the meer. 

Then Arthur is borne on Sir Bedivere’s shoulders to the 
shores of a lake. The ‘ dusky barge ’ nears them,— 

Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, 

and the King is put in it. Before it glides away, Arthur 
addresses a farewell to his afflicted Knight, Sir Bedivere, 
standing on the shore, in a great and truly Christian 
strain : 

“ The old order changeth, yieldeth place to new, 

And God fulfils himself in many ways, 

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 

If thou shouldst never see my face again, 

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 
Kise like a fountain for me night and day. 

For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them friend ? 

For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 


404 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest,—if indeed I go— 

(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt), 

To the island-valley of Avilion ; 

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 

Nor ever wind blows loudly : hut it lies 
Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns 
And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea, 

Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.” 

In a criticism of the Idylls of the King , the London 
Times of January, 1870, holds the following language: 
“ The whole may now be pronounced, we are not afraid to 
say, a poem unequalled, in its great, finished, and happy 
design, since the time of Milton.” Yet who can determine 
whether the poet-laureate will keep with posterity the high 
praise conferred upon him by his contemporaries ? 

Prologue to In Memoriam. 

Strong Son of God, Immortal Love, 

Whom we, that have not seen thy face, 

By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 

Believing where we cannot prove ; 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 

Thou madest life in man and brute ; 

Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot 

Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: 

Thou madest man, he knows not why; 

He thinks he was not made to die; 

And thou hast made him: thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine, 

The highest, holiest manhood, thou : 

Our wills are ours, we know not how : 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


405 


Our little systems have their day; 

They have their day and cease to be: 

They are but broken lights of thee, 

And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 

We have but faith : we cannot know : 

For knowledge is of things we see ; 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 

A beam in darkness : let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to more, 

But more of reverence in us dwell ; 

That mind and soul according well, 

May make one music as before, 

But vaster. We are fools and slight; 

We mock thee when we do not fear ; 

But help thy foolish ones to boar ; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem’d my sin in me: 

What seem’d my worth since I began ; 

For merit lives from man to man, 

And not from man, 0 Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed, 

Thy creature, whom I found so fair; 

I trust he lives in thee, and there 
I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries, 
Confusion of a wasted youth ; 

Forgive them where they fail in truth, 

And in thy wisdom make me wise. 

The Bugle Song. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story : 

The long light skates across the lakes 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 


406 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 

O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfand faintly blowing ! 

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 

Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river : 

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 

And grow forever and forever. 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 


Break, Break, Break. 

1 . 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, 0 Sea ! 

And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 

2 . 

O, well for the fisherman’s boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 
O, well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay 1 


3 . 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill ; 

But, 0, for the touch of a vanish’d hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still! 

4 . 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 

But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
"Will never come back to me. 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


407 


AUBREY DE YERE. 

Mr. de Yere was born in Ireland, and is about fifty-five 
or sixty years of age. His father, Sir Aubrey de Yere, a 
gentleman of high social rank, and himself a writer of no 
inconsiderable talent, was born at Currah Chase, county 
of Limerick, in 1788, and died at the same place in 1846. 
The son was educated at one of the English Universities, 
and on his return to Ireland entered with zeal on the study 
of ancient Irish history, the literature, manners, customs of 
the people, and what, in the politics of the United 
Kingdom, is known as the Irish Question. His contribu¬ 
tions in various forms to subjects of an ecclesiastical, as 
well as political nature, in the administration of Irish 
affairs, have had no small influence in the settlements of 
grave questions of Irish policy. 

Mr. de Yere spent many years in travel and study, and 
at an early age was deeply imbued with the spirit of ancient 
classical poetry. Before he left the University, he wrote 
verses which attracted attention; and, during the first 
years of manhood, he published several poems which dis¬ 
covered genius of high order. In the Anglo-Saxon remains 
he became deeply versed, and among polite scholars was 
not long in securing esteem as an authority on the laws of 
rhythmical and metrical composition. He was born and 
educated a Protestant, but became a Catholic after entering 
on the world. For more than thirty years he has been an 
ardent worker in letters, and is the author of many poems, 
lyrical, dramatic, and patriotic, which are stamped with 
rare beauty and originality of conception. His religious 
poems are not inferior to any in contemporaneous literature, 
notably his May Carols and Hymns. Among the latter, 
The True Humanity is a favorable example of his genius 
and power. 


408 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


Among Mr. Aubrey de Yere’s other works the best 
known are the following: Selections from, the Poets , 
beginning with Chaucer and coming down to Tennyson, 
and enriched with biographical and critical sketches of 
great value; Irish Odes and Other Poems, of which The 
Catholic World* says: “With its human share of faults, 
it is a truer, abler, and more scholarly book than often 
issues from an American press, and contains everywhere 
lofty and pure thought, with never a taint of evil, and 
never a morally doubtful passage; ” finally, his already 
celebrated dramatic poem, Alexander The Great, by far 
the greatest work, as it is the latest, of this gifted poet. 
The Dublin Review f sees in it a ‘work which merits 
immortality,’ and adds: “ Whether the Alexander of this 
great poem be the Alexander of reality, we cannot tell, 
but henceforth he will be the Alexander of Mr. Aubrey 
de Yere’s readers, as wholly and as lovingly as Mr. Ten¬ 
nyson’s ‘ideal knight’ is all England’s Arthur.” 

The defect of Mr. de Yere’s poetry is one which may be 
ascribed to the school of which he is so ardent a disciple— 
the Wordsworth school; it is the occasional employment of 
figures and modes of thought not in themselves noble or 
elevated. Triteness is sometimes found where the poet 
attempts to be natural and to avoid what he deems the con¬ 
ventional brilliancy of a former school. In order to shun 
purely rhetorical effects, and to clothe his style with sim¬ 
plicity, Mr. de Yere’s has on some few occasions fallen into 
the opposite fault of affectation. II is later works, espe¬ 
cially Alexander The Great, are much freer from such 
common-place passages than his earlier ones. 


* May, 1869. See also an extended criticism in The Dublin Review, Jan., 
1870. t Oct., 1874. 




THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


409 


The True Humanity. 

Sacred Humanity of Christ, all hail 1 
Glorified Manhood which alone art Man ; 

Great Archetype in God’s own image formed 
From everlasting ! Adam was to Thee 
Second, not first. Essential Man art Thou j 
We are hut pigmy and distorted shades 
Downcast from Adam’s lightning-blasted trunk 
Upon the blighted heath of mortal life, 

Or timeless and abortive fruit unblest. 

True Man ! true God, that art alone true Man! 

Thou from Whose touch deific streams that power, 
Which keeps from further and more bestial lapse 
The race created human ; hail, O hail! 

Hail in Thy Paradise of lonely light 
Walking with God ; in Thy regalities 
The mediatorial realm from pole to pole 
Swaying: all hail, great Pontiff, with Thyself 
Lighting Thy Church: all hail, Prophetic Power, 

Before Whose eyes creation yet unborn 

In vision passed ; and from Whose tongue her works 

Their names received, and were what they were called. 

Address of Alexander to his mutineered Soldiers. 

A mutiny of the Greek soldiers has been quelled at 
its birth, and the ringleaders have been beheaded, when 
Alexander, standing alone upon a platform level with the 
heads of the crowd, addresses to them the following superb 
! invective and grand summary of his deeds: * 

Ye swine-herds, and ye goat-herds, and ye shepherds, 

That shamelessly in warlike garb usurp’d, 

Your vileness cloak, my words are not for you ; 

There stand among you others, soldiers’ sons, 

Male breasts, o’erwrit with chronicles of wars : 


35 


* Dublin Review, Oct. 1874. 




410 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


To them I speak. What made yon that ye are, 

The world’s wide wonder, and the dread of nations ? 

Your king ! What king? Some king that ruled o’er lands 

Illimitable, and golden harvested 

From ocean’s line to ocean ? Sirs, ’twas one 

With petty realm, foe-girt and cleft with treasons, 

Dragg’d up from darkness late, and half alive. 

From these beginnings I subdued the earth :— 

For whom ? For you. The increase is yours : for me, 
Whose forehead sweated, and whose eyes kept watch, 
Remains the barren crown and power imperial. 

I found but seventy talents in my chest: 

Full many a soldier with his bride late spoused, 

Got better dowry. In my ports I found 
A fleet to Persia’s but as one to ten : 

I sold my royal farms, and built me ships ; 

An army found thin-worn as winter wolves 
On Rhodope snow-piled ; my sceptre’s gems 
I changed to bread and fed it. Forth from nothing 
I called that empire which this day I rule. 

My father left me this—his Name; I took it 
And kneaded in the hollows of my hands. 

I moulded it to substance, nerved it, boned it 
With victories, breathed through it my spirit, its life, 
Clothed it with vanquish’d nations, sent it forth 
Sworded with justice and with wisdom helm’d, 

The one just empire of a world made one. 

Forget ye, sirs, the things ye saw,—the States 
Redeem’d of Lesser Asia, our own blood,— 

The States subdued, first Syria, then Phoenicia, 

Old Tyre, the war-winged tigress of the seas, 

And Egypt next ? The Pyramids broad-based 
Descrying far our advent rock’d for fear 
Above their buried kings : Assyria bow’d : 

The realm of Ninus fought upon her knees 
Not long : the realm of Cyrus kiss’d the dust: 

From lost Granicus rang the vanquish’d wail 
To Issus: on Arbela’s plain it died. 

Chaldeea, Persis, Media, Susiana — 


THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 


411 


We stepp’d above these corpses in our right 
To Parthia, and Ilyrcania, Bactriana, 

And Scythia’s endless waste— 

The cry from Paromisus answer gave,— 

To Drangiana’s dirge : thy doom, Aria 
To wan-faced Achcrosia spake her own : 

In vain the Indian Caucasus hurl’d down 
Prom heaven-topp’d crags her floods to bar my way: 
Plood-like we dash’d on vales till then but known 
To gods, not men, of Greece. Bear witness, ye 
Aornus, from thine eagle-baffling crest 
(Vainly by Hercules himself assail’d), 

By us down-pluck’d, and Nysa, Bacchus-built, 

"When Bacchus trod the East. What hands were those 
Which from the grove Nysaean and fissured rocks 
The Bacchic ivies rent ? Whose foreheads wore them ? 
Whose lips upraised the Bacchus-praising hymn ? 

Whose hands consummated his work—restored 
To liberty and laws the god-built city ?— 

Sirs, the vile end of all is briefly told. 

We pierced the precinct of the Itivers Five, 

Indus, and other four. The jewell’d crowns 
Of those dusk sovereigns fell flat before us : 

The innumerous armies open’d like the wind 
That siglis around an arrow, while we pass’d : 

Those moving mountains, the broad elephants, 

Went down with all their towers. We reach’d Ilydaspes : 
Nations, the horizon blackening, o’er it hung :— 

Porus, exult 1 In ruin thine were true ; 

While mine, in conquest’s hour, upon the banks 
Of Hyphasis—What stay’d me on my way ? 

An idiot army in mid victory dumb ! 

I gave them time—three days: those three days past, 

Ye heard a voice, “ The gods forbid our march : ”— 

Sirs, ’twas a falsehood ! On the Olympian height 
That day the immortal concourse crouch’d for shame : 
Their oracles were dead. ’Twas I that spake it! 

I was, that hour, the Olympian height twelve-throned 
That hid the happy auspice in the cloud, 





412 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


And this mine oracle—“ Of those dumb traitors 
Not one shall wash his foot in Ganges’ wave.’'’ 

I built twelve altars on that margin, each 
A temple’s height, and eastward fronting :—why ? 

To lift my witness ’gainst you to the gods ! 

Once move, as then, I spurn you, slaves 1 Your placo 
Is vacant. Time shall judge this base desertion 
’Which leaves me but the conquer’d to complete 
The circle of my conquests. Gods, it may be, 

Shall vouch it holy, men confirm it just •— 

Your places in the ranks are yours no more. 


Part II. 

AMERICAN LITERATURE. 

FIRST PERIOD. 

THE COLONIAL ERA, 1607-1761. 

(From the Colonization of Virginia to the Speech of 
Otis.) 

The New England Puritans.—Metrical Compositions .— 
The first hook published in British America .— George 
Sandys.—Roger Williams.—Michael Wigglesworth .— 
James Logan.—Cadwallader Golden. 

The New England Puritans. 

The intellect of this period was chiefly developed in a 
theological form. This was the natural consequence of 
difference of religious opinions in the Colonies, and of the 
discussions to which antagonistic forms of an intolerant 
worship gave rise. The New England Puritan School is 
the most prominent for the number of its writings; which, 
although characterized by a rude, untutored vigor of 
thought, and a peculiar Scriptural phraseology, yet possess 
a certain earnestness unshackled by foreign models or 
authorities. The most noted names of this period, besides 
those which will be found in our sketches, are Cotton, 
Hooker the Mathers, and Jonathan Edwards. As a 
general rule, with the exception perhaps of Jonathan 
Edwards, their writings serve but to gratify the curiosity 
of antiquarians. 

35* 


413 




414 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


Metrical Compositions. 

The metrical compositions are, for the most part, formal, 
pedantic, and quaint. Many turned their hand to poetry 
‘iirvita Minerva’; and the best praise that can be awarded 
to American verses, before the harmonies of Dryden and 
Pope were known, is that they were ‘ ingeniously gro¬ 
tesque.’ The poetry, however, of George Sandys, if he can 
be claimed as an American poet, is not liable to this faint 
commendation. According to James Montgomery, his 
version of the Psalms of David is 1 incomparably the most 
poetical in the English language, and yet, at the present 
day, scarcely known.’ 

The first book published in America. 

The first book published in British America, according 
to Griswold, was The Psalms, in Metre , faithfully trans¬ 
lated for the Use, Edification, and Comfort of the Saints, 
in Public and Private, especially in New England, 
printed at Cambridge, in 1G40. The translators seem to 
have been aware that ‘ the verses were not always so 
smooth and elegant as some might desire and expect.’ 
The following specimen is from the second edition: 

Psalm cxxxvii. 

The rivers on of Babilon 
There when wee did sit downe, 

Yea, even then, wee mourned when 
Wee remembered Sion. 

Our harp wee did hang it amid, 

Upon the willow tree, 

Because there they that us away 
Led in captivitee, 

Required of us a song, and thus 
Askt mirth us waste who laid, 

Sing us among a Sion’s song, 

Unto us then they said. 


THE COLONIAL ERA. 


415 


The first newspaper published in America, was the 
Boston Weekly Newsletter. The first number was issued 
on the 24th of April, 1704; and the first sheet printed was 
taken damp from the press by Chief*Justice Sewell, to 
exhibit as a cariosity to President Villard of Harvard 
University. The Newsletter was continued seventy-two 
years. Only one complete copy of it is preserved. 


GEORGE SANDYS, 1577-1643. 

“ The first English literary production penned in 
America,” says Duyckinck, “at least which has any rank 
or name in the general history of literature, is the transla¬ 
tion of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, by George Sandys, printed 
in folio in London, in 1626.” This early American writer 
was a son of the Anglican Archbishop of that name, and 
was born in England, in 1577. In the colony of Virginia 
he held the post of Treasurer; and it was on the banks of 
James river, as he informs us in his dedication of the work 
to King Charles I., that his poem * was limned by that 
imperfect light, which was snatched from the hours of 
night and repose.’ Bancroft says of him : “ His verse was 
tolerated by Dryden and praised by Izaak Walton.” 
Michael Drayton, author of the Polyolbion, addressed to 
him an epistle in which he says : 

“ My worthy George, by industry and use, 

Let’s see what Virginia can produce; 

Go on with Ovid, as you have begun 
With the first five books: let your numbers run 
Glib as the former : so, it shall live long 
And do much honor to the English tongue.” 

Like Sir John Mandeville, the first English prose writer, 
Sandys was a distinguished traveller; and his book on the 
countries of the Mediterranean and the Holy Land enjoyed 




416 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


great popularity. It is said that Addison, in the history 
of his Italian tour, took Sandys as his model. Sandys 
seems to have been one of the first to quote the allusions 
of the ancient poets to the places through which he passed, 
a plan so successfully adopted by Dodwell in his Classical 
Tour through Greece , and by Eustace in his Classical 
Tour through Italy. 

We may quote a few lines of his Ovid, as a pleasing 
memorial of his classic labors in the colony of Virginia. 

The Golden Age was first; which uncompeld, 

And without rule, in faith and truth exeeld, 

As then, there was nor punishment nor fear ; 

Nor threatning laws in brass prescribed w r ere ; 

Nor suppliant crouching prisoners shook to see 
Their angrie judge. . . . 

In firm content 

And harmless ease, their happy days were spent, 

The yet-free Earth did of her own accord 
(Untorn with ploughs) all sorts of fruit afford. 

Content with nature’s unenforced food, 

They gather wildings, straw’bries of the wood, 

Sour cornels, what upon the bramble grows, 

And acorns which Jove’s spreading oak bestows. 

’Twas always Spring ; warm Zephyrus sweetly blew 
On smiling flowers, which without setting grew. 

Forthwith the earth, corn unmanured bears; 

And every year renews her golden ears : 

With milk and nectar were the rivers fill’d ; 

And yellow honey form green elms distilled. 

ROGER WILLIAMS, 1606-1683. 

After the illustrious founder of Maryland, Sir George 
Calvert, who, in the words of Bancroft, ‘was the first to 
plan the establishment of popular institutions with the 
enjoyment of liberty of conscience,’ the name of Roger 
Williams holds to most distinguished rank among the 


TIIE COLONIAL ERA. 


417 

champions of civil and religions liberty in this country. 
Both were educated at Oxford; both crossed the Atlantic 
for conscience’ sake; both maintained the equality before 
the law of religious rights; both succeeded in obtaining 
charters of incorporation in which their liberal views were 
embodied, Calvert for Maryland in 1G32, Williams for 
Providence Plantations in 1G44.* 

Very few incidents of his life are to be collected from 
his writings ; and the prejudices of contemporary and even 
later historians who have mentioned him, render it difficult 
to form a true estimate of his character. He appears to 
have been a man of unblemished morals, and not to be 
diverted from what he believed to be duty, either by 
threats or flattery. He was at all times the fearless 
advocate of religious freedom; and, strange as it may 
seem, this was probably the first thing that excited against 
him the persecuting spirit of the Massachusetts and Ply¬ 
mouth rulers. 

Banished from Salem in the depth of winter in 1G36, he 
found hospitality among the neighboring Indians. In the 
following June, the lawgiver of Rhode Island embarked 
on a frail Indian canoe with his five companions, and 
landed near a place which was called by him Providence, 


♦The clause in the Charter of Rhode Island respecting religious freedom, 
is in the following broad terms: “ No person shall at any time hereafter be 
anyways called in question for any difference of opinion in matters of re¬ 
ligion.” The exception however of Roman Catholics, which Bancroft sup¬ 
poses was subsequently made by committees that revised the laws, is a blot 
upon the escutcheon of the State. Nor is the excuse of the historian either 
very plausible or satisfactory. “The exception,” ho says, “was not the act 
of the people of Rhode Island; nor do the public records indicate what com¬ 
mittee of revisal made the alteration, for which the occasion grew out of 
English politics. The exception was harmless (?); for there were no Roman 
Catholics in the Colony. When, in the war for independence, French ships 
arrived in the harbors of Rhode Island, the inconsistent exception was im¬ 
mediately erased by the legislature.”—Vol. 2, p. Co. 




418 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


in order to express his unbroken confidence in the mercies 
of God. “ I desired,” said he, “ it might be for a shelter 
for persons distressed for conscience.” 

Of the publications of Williams that have reached us, 
the first, in order of time, is his Key into the Language of 
America , printed in London in 1648, and reprinted in 
Boston in 1827. “A little key,” he says, “may open a 
box where lies a bunch of keys.” The book is a series of 
thirty-two chapters, each containing a vocabulary, with 
occasional observations at a suggestive word, relating to 
manners or notions ; and concluding with a set of verses. 

In 1683, in the seventy-eighth year of his age, the 
founder of Rhode Island, the friend of peace and assertor 
of liberty, died at Providence, on the spot which his genius 
and labors had consecrated. 

MICHAEL WIGGLES WORTH, 1631-1705. 

Michael Wigglesworth was, in his day, one of the most 
successful of our verse-writers. He was born about 1631. 
On completing’ his studies at Harvard, he was appointed 
Tutor in the College; but he soon removed to Malden, 
where for nearly fifty years he exercised the functions of 
the ministry. Being of a delicate- constitution, he had 
frequent attacks of illness from an affection of the lungs, 
which made him occasionally suspend his pulpit exertions. 
During these intervals, he composed his DUy of Doom } 
a poetical description of the last judgment. It passed 
through six editions in this country, and was reprinted in 
London. He is also the author of a poem entitled Meat 
out of the Eater , or Meditations concerning the necessity , 
end , and usefulness of afflictions. It is divided into a 
number of sections of some ten or twelve eight-line stanzas 
each. The style is in general quaint and harsh. 





419 


* 

THE COLONIAL ERA. 

The latter work is followed by a collection of verses, 
from which we quote the contents, printed on the back of 
the title page : 

Kiddles Unriddled ; or, Christian Paradoxes. 

Light in Darkness, 

Sick men’s Health, 

Strength in Weakness, 

Poor men’s Wealth, 

In confinement 
Liberty, 

In solitude 
Good company. 

Joy in sorrow, 

Life in Death’s 
Heavenly Crowns for 
Thorny Wreaths 
Are presented to thy view 
In the Poems that ensue. 

A few verses from the Meat out of the Eater will show 
the best manner of this early poet: 

Soldier, he strong, who fightest 
Under a Captain stout; 

Dishonor not thy conquering Head 
By basely giving out. 

Endure a while, bear up, 

And hope for better things; 

War ends in peace, and morning light 
Mounts upon midnight’s wing. 

Wigglesworth lived to the good old age of seventy-four, 
dying in the year 1705. Cotton Mather wrote his funeral 
sermon, and the following 

Epitaph. 

“ The excellent Wigglesworth remembered by some good tokens. 

His pen did once meat from the eater fetch, 

And now he’s gone beyond the eater’s reach. 





420 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


His body once so tliin, was next to none; 

From hence, he’s to embodied spirits flown. 

Once his rare skill did all diseases heal, 

And he does nothing now uneasy feel. 

He to his paradise is joyful come, 

And waits with joy to see his day of Doom.” 

JAMES LOGAN, 1674-1751. 

James Logan, founder of the Loganian Library in 
Philadelphia, was distinguished for his literary and scien¬ 
tific accomplishments and writings. He was born at Lur- 
gan in Ireland of Scottish parents. He was engaged in 
the trade between Dublin and Bristol, when he determined 
to accompany William Penn to Pennsylvania. He was 
afterwards invested with many important offices, which he 
discharged with fidelity and judgment. He spent the latter 
part of his life at Stanton, his country-seat, near German¬ 
town, in the enjoyment of his library, the composition of his 
works, and correspondence with the learned of foreign coun¬ 
tries. He was ‘master of the Greek, Latin, French, and 
German languages, and was well acquainted with mathe¬ 
matics, natural and moral philosophy and natural history.’ 

He published an excellent translation of Cicero’s De 
Senectute, with extensive familiar notes; also A Transla- 
lation of Cato's Disticlis into English Verse. Ilis Expe- 
rimenta et Meletemata de Plantarum generatione, written 
in 17 39, entitles its author to be ranked among the earliest 
improvers of botany. He left in manuscript A Defence of 
Aristotle and the Ancient philosophers ; Essays on Lan¬ 
guages and the Antiquities of the British Isles, &c. 

Logan was a man of uncommon natural and acquired 
abilities; of great wisdom, moderation, and prudence; well 
acquainted with the world and mankind as well as with 
books; of unblemished morals, and inflexible integrity. 
He died at Stanton in 1151, having just completed his 
77 th year. 


THE COLONIAL ERA. 


421 


CADWALLADER COLDEN, 1688-1776. 

C. Colden, for fifteen years lieutenant-governor of New 
York and the earliest author of note in that city, was a 
Scotchman by birth. He was prepared by the private 
instructions of his father for the University of Edinburgh, 
where he was graduated in 1705. After three years devoted 
to medical studies, he emigrated to America, and practised 
medicine with great success in Philadelphia. In 1718, he 
settled in New York, where he abandoned his profession for 
the service of the State. He filled the office of lieutenant- 
governor from the year 1760 until his death in 1776. 

The work for which Colden deserves a place in American 
literature is a History of the Five Indian Nations , which 
has passed through several editions. It gives an account 
of the intercourse between the Aborigines and the Euro¬ 
peans, from the settlement of the country to the period of 
its publication in 1727. Besides a philosophical treatise, 
The Principles of Action in Matter , he wrote numerous 
botanical and medical essays. He also maintained an 
active correspondence with Linnaeus and other leading 
scientific men of Europe and America. Bancroft, in the 
preface to the sixth volume of his History, acknowledges 
his especial indebtedness to ‘ the manuscripts of lieutenant- 
governor Colden, covering a period in New York history 
of nearly a quarter of a century.’ 


36 




422 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


SECOND PERIOD. 

THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD, 1761-1800. 

(From the Speech of Otis to the end of the Century.) 

The literary character of the Period.—James Otis .— 
Benjamin Franklin.—Francis Hopkinson.—David 
Ramsay.—Jeremy Belknap —Hugh Henry Brack - 
enridge.—Alexander Hamilton—John Jay.—James 
Madison .— Thomas Jefferson.—John Trumbull .— 
Philip Freneau. 

The Literary Character of the Period. 

This period may be said to have begun with the dis¬ 
cussion of legal constitutional principles. Political and 
judicial arguments form its staple. It was inaugurated by 
Otis, Adams, and Patrick Henry; and it closed soon 
after the labors of Hamilton, Madison, and Jay, in The 
Federalist Of the orations of Otis, which were described 
as 4 flames of fire’, we have but a few meagre reports. We 
are persuaded of the superior eloquence of Henry only 
by the history of its wonderful effects. The passionate 
appeals of the elder Adams, which 4 moved his hearers 
from their seats,’ are not in print. But for tradition, it 
would be unknown that Rutledge of South Carolina was 
one of the greatest of our orators. There is scarcely a 
vestige of the resistless declamation and argument of 
Pinkney. Some of the speeches of Fisher Ames have 
come down to us with their passages of chaste and striking 
beauty, and they constitute nearly all the recorded eloquence 
of the time in which he was an actor. 


THE REVOLUTIONARY TERIOD. 


423 


In the first rank of our great legislators stand Jefferson, 
the framer of the Declaration, and Hamilton, the vindicator 
of the Constitution. The latter was the soul and power of 
The Federalist, which, in the words of the Edinburgh 
Review, ‘would have done honor to the most illustrious 
statesman of ancient or modern times. , The writings of 
Madison show great extent of information combined with 
soundness of reasoning and rare practicalness of mind. 

“Nor was the literature,” says Duyckinck, “ confined to 
didactic political disquisitions. In Francis Hopkinson, it 
had a polished champion, who taught by wit what Dick¬ 
inson and Drayton unfolded by argument and eloquence, 
while Trumbull, Freneau, and Brackenridge, caught the 
various humors of the times, and introduced a new spirit 
into American literature.” 

JAMES OTIS, 1724-1783. 

James Otis, the distinguished American patriot, the 
first writer of the Revolution, was born in what is now 
called West Barnstable, Massachusetts. His family, of 
English origin, was one of the most respectable in the 
colony. In June, 1739, he entered Harvard College. The 
first two years of his collegiate course are said to have 
been given more to amusement than to study; but subse¬ 
quently he was distinguished for his application and pro¬ 
ficiency. After finishing his course at the University, he 
devoted eighteen months to the pursuit of various branches 
of literature, and then entered upon the study of the law. 
Having removed to Boston, he at once assumed a high 
rank in his profession, and acquired a very extensive 
j practice. In the midst of his professional engagements, he 
cultivated his taste for literature; and, in 1760, published 
a treatise, entitled The Rudiments of Latin Prosody , 
i with a dissertation on Letters, and the Principles of 





424 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


Harmony in poetic and prosaic composition , collected 
from the best winters. He also composed a similar work 
on Greek prosody. It was never printed, as he said, 
because ‘there were no Greek types in the country; or, if 
there were, no printer knew how to set them.’ 

His public career dates from the famous speech which 
he delivered in February, 1761, against the ‘writs of 
assistance.’ These were search-warrants, introduced by 
the English government, by means of which the courts 
were called upon to protect the officers of the customs in 
forcibly entering and searching the premises of merchants 
in quest of dutiable goods. Referring to that discourse, 
President Adams the elder says: “Otis’s was a flame of fire; 
with a promptitude of classical allusions, a profusion of 
legal authorities, a prophetic glance of his. eyes into 
futurity, and a rapid torrent of impetuous eloquence, he 
hurried all away before him. American Independence was 
then and there born.” At the next election of members of 
the Legislature, in the same year, he was chosen almost 
unanimously a representative from Boston, and soon 
became the leader, in the House, of the popular party. 

Otis was the author of several political pamphlets, 
greatly applauded and widely circulated at the time. 
Perhaps the most important of them is the Rights of the 
British Colonies asserted and proved, which appeared in 
1764. The argument of it is summed up at the close with 
admirable conciseness. An advertisement from his pen in 
the Boston Gazette of 1769, denouncing the commissioners 
of the customs, gave rise to an altercation, in which he 
received a severe wound in the head, which impaired his 
intellectual faculties for life. His last years were passed 
at Andover, where he was struck by lightning in 1783, and 
died instantaneously. It is greatly to be regretted that 
during his derangement, he destroyed all his papers. 


THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD. 


425 


BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, 1706-1790. 

Benjamin Franklin, a name equally illustrious in states¬ 
manship and philosophy, was born in Boston on the seven¬ 
teenth of January, 1706. He could boast of no ancestral 
dignities, and could claim no other nobility than ‘ in 
nature’s heraldry of honest labor.’ His father, a tallow- 
chandler, was too poor to give him the advantages of a 
collegiate education. It was whilst attending to his trade, 
first with his father, and afterwards as printer with his 
brother, that he managed to employ his leisure moments 
in reading the best books he could find, in order to improve 
his English style and direct and mature his early studies. 

Among his first literary efforts were some specimens of 
ballad poetry. “ They were wretched stuff,” says he in his 
Memoirs, “in street-ballad style. . . . Their success flat- 
I tered my vanity; but my father discouraged me by criti- 
I cising my performances, and telling me verse-makers were 
generally beggars. Thus I escaped being a poet and 
probably a very bad one.” 

Franklin left Boston for Philadelphia in 1723; went to 
London the following year, and worked there at his trade 
of printer for about two years. During his stay in that 
capital he wrote a treatise of infidel metaphysics, entitled 
A Dissertation on Liberty and Necessity , Pleasure and 
Pain. “It is not to be doubted,” says Allibone, “that inti¬ 
macies with English free-thinkers at this period, and with 
! French deists and atheists at a later stage of his life, did 
much to engender those latitudinarian sentiments upon 
j; religious subjects, which Franklin is known to have enter- 
, tained.” 

In 1729, we find him established as a printer in Phila¬ 
delphia, and publisher of the Pennsylvania Gazette , then 
recently started. In 1732, he first published his celebrated 
36* 





426 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


Almanac , commonly known as Poor Richard's Almanac, 
under the assumed name of ‘Richard Saunders.’ Besides 
the usual tables and calendar, it contained a fund of useful 
information and proverbial sentences, chiefly such as incul¬ 
cated industry and frugality. He was the founder of the 
American Philosophical Society, in 1743; and he estab¬ 
lished, in 1749, the Academy which, in the course of time, 
has grown to be the University of Pennsylvania. In 1752, 
he demonstrated his theory of the identity of lightning 
with electricity, by his famous kite experiment in a field 
near Philadelphia. Having passed five years in Great 
Britain (1757-1762) as agent for Pennsylvania, he re¬ 
turned to America; and in 1764 again visited England 
with a petition for a change in the charter of the Province. 
Whilst abroad, he was not forgetful of the interests of the 
Colonies at large ; and it was, doubtless, owing in a great 
measure to the effect produced by his celebrated examina¬ 
tion before the Parliament in 1766, that the obnoxious 
Stamp Act was repealed. When the difficulties between 
the mother country and her colonies had been aggravated 
to a state of open hostility, Franklin was elected a member 
of the American Congress. After signing the Declaration 
of Independence, he was appointed Minister Plenipoten¬ 
tiary to France, where he arrived in December, 1776. His 
success in enlisting the sympathies and substantial assist¬ 
ance of the French people in behalf of the American 
colonies, is well known. 

After signing the definite treaty of peace with Great 
Britain, he landed at Philadelphia in the eightieth year 
of his age, on the spot where sixty-three years before he 
stood a poor and friendless youth,—and was greeted with 
the ringing of bells, the discharge of artillery, and the 
acclamations of a grateful and admiring people. 

For three years he filled the dignified office of Presi¬ 
dent of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and in 1787 




THE REVOLUTIONARY TERIOD. 


421 


sat with Washington and Hamilton in the Federal Con¬ 
vention which framed the Constitution of the United 
States. 

The finest study of Franklin is in his autobiography. 
Simple in style, it is tinged by the peculiar habit of the 
author’s mind, and shows his humor of character in perfec¬ 
tion. His voluminous correspondence would alone have 
given him high literary reputation as a letter-writer. 
His essential philanthropy, good humor, wit, and ready 
resources, are everywhere apparent in his letters. But it 
is to the perspicuity, method, and ease of Franklin’s philo¬ 
sophical writings, that his solid reputation will remain 
greatly indebted. “ The style and manner of his publication 
on Electricity,” says Sir Humphrey Davy, “are almost as 
worthy of admiration as the doctrine which they contain.” 
His moral writings are distinguished for what is called 
common sense. His ideal, however, of utility is too humble. 
Virtue with him consists in doing good to mankind, not for 
its own sweetness, but that they may do good to us. His 
warning hand, raised to Paine on the eve of the latter’s 
infamous publication entitled Age of Reason, deserves to 
be remembered. 

“I would advise you not to attempt unchaining the 
tiger, but to burn this piece before it is seen by any other 
person. Jf men are so wicked with religion, what would 
they be without it? Perhaps you are indebted to her 
originally, that is, to your religious education, for the habits 
of virtue upon which you now justly value yourself. You 
might easily display your excellent talents of reasoning 
upon a less hazardous subject; and thereby obtain a rank 
with our most distinguished authors: for, amongst us, it 
is not necessary, as among the Hottentots, that a youth, to 
be raised to the company of men, should prove his manhood 
by beating his mother.” 




428 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


The last year of his presidency ended in October, 178?; 
and, after that time, though he was often consulted on 
public affairs, he held no office under the government. He 
resided in Philadelphia with his daughter and grand chil¬ 
dren, and died there on the seventeenth of April, 1790, in 
the eiglity-fourtli year of his age, retaining his full powers 
of mind to the last. 

A new and complete edition of Franklin’s writings was 
published in Philadelphia, 1858. The materials have been 
classified uuder the following heads : 

1. Autobiography. 

2. Essays on Religious and Moral Subjects and the Economy of 

Life. 

3. Essays on General Politics, Commerce, and Political Economy. 

4. Essays and Tracts, Historical and Political, before the Ameri¬ 

can Revolution. 

5. Political Papers during and after the American Revolution. 

6. Letters and Papers on Electricity. 

7. Letters and Papers on Philosophical subjects. 

8. Correspondence. 

A Petition to those who have the Care of Youth. 

I address myself to all the friends of youth, and conjure them 
to direct their passionate regards to my unhappy fate, in order to 
remove the prejudices of which I am the victim. There are twin 
sisters of us; and the eyes of man do not more closely resemble, 
nor are capable of being upon better terms with each other, than 
my sister and myself, were it not for the partiality of my parents, 
who make the most injurious distinctions between us. 

From my infancy, 1 have been led to consider my sister as a 
being of a more elevated rank. I was suffered to grow up without 
the least instruction, while nothing was spared in her education. 
She had masters to teach her writing, drawing, music, and other 
accomplishments ; but if I, by chance, touched a pencil, a pen, or 
a needle, I was bitterly rebuked; and more than once I have 
been beaten for being awkward, and wanting a graceful manner. 


THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD. 


429 


It is true, my sister associated me with lier, upon some occasions ; 
hut she always made a point of taking the lead, calling upon me 
only from necessity, or to figure by her side. 

But conceive not, sirs, that my complaints are instigated merely 
by vanity. No; my uneasiness is occasioned by an object much 
more serious. It is the practice in our family, that the whole 
business of providing for its subsistence falls upon my sister and 
myself. If any indisposition -should attack my sister, (and I 
mention it in confidence upon this occasion, that she is subject to 
the gout, the rheumatism, and cramp, without making mention 
of other accidents), what would be the fate of our poor family! 
Must not the regret of our parents be excessive, at having placed 
so great a difference between sisters who are perfectly equal ? 
Alas! we must perish from distress; for it would not be in my 
power even to scrawl a suppliant petition, having been obliged to 
employ the hand of another in transcribing the request which I 
have now the honor to prefer you. 

Condescend, sirs, to make my parents sensible of the injustice 
of an exclusive tenderness, and of the necessity of distributing 
their care and affection among all their children, equally. 

I am, with profound respect, 

Sirs, your obedient servant, 

Tiie Left Hand. 


Apothegms. 

God helps them that help themselves. 

Sloth, like rust, consumes faster than labor wears ; while the 
used key is always bright. 

Dost thou love life, then do not squander time, for that is the 
stuff life is made of. 

The sleeping fox catches no poultry. 

There will be sleeping enough in the grave. 

If time be of all things the most precious, wasting time must 
be the greatest prodigality. 

Lost time is never found again ; and what we call time enough, 
always proves little enough. 

Sloth makes all things difficult; but industry, all easy. 

He that riseth late must trot all day, and shall scarce overtake 
his business at n ight. 

Laziness travels so slowly that Poverty soon overtakes him. 



430 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


Drive thy business, let not that drive thee. 

Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, 
and wise. 

Industry needs not wish ; and he that lives on hope will die 
fasting. 

He that hath a trade, hath an estate; and he that hath a calling, 
hath an office of profit and honor. 

Industry pays debts, while despair increaseth them. 

Diligence is the mother of good luck. 

Plough deep while sluggards sleep, and you will have corn to 
sell and to keep. 

One to-day is worth two to-morrow. 

Never leave that till to-morrow which you can do to-day. 

The cat in gloves catches no mice. 

Constant dropping wears away stones. 

By diligence and patience the mouse ate in two the cable. 

Little strokes fell great oaks. 

Employ thy time well, if thou meanest to gain leisure ; and, 
since thou art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour. 

A life of leisure and a life of laziness are two things. 

Three removes are as bad as a fire. 

Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee. 

If you would have 3 our business done, go ; if not, send. 

He that by the plough would thrive, 

Himself must either hold or drive. 

The eye of a master will do more work than both his hands. 
"Want of care does us more damage than want of knowledge. 
Not to oversee workmen, is to leave them your purse open. 

If you would have a faithful servant, and one that you like, 
serve yourself. 

A fat kitchen makes a lean will. 

If you would be wealth}'-, think of saving as well as of getting. 
"What maintains one vice would bring up two children. 

A small leak will sink a great ship. 

Fools make feasts, and wise men eat them. 

If you would know the value of money, go and try to borrow 
some ; for he that goes a borrowing, goes a sorrowing. 

"When you have bought one fine thing, you must buy two more, 
that your appearance may be all of a piece. 

It is hard for an empty bag to stand upright. 


THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD. 


431 


FRANCIS HOPIvINSON, 1737-1791. 

Francis Hopkinson, the celebrated wit, judge, statesman, 
and writer, was born in Philadelphia. He was educated 
at the College, now the University, of Pennsylvania, and 
subsequently studied law. He visited England in 1765 ; 
and on his return to America, after an absence of two 
years, fixed his residence at Bordentown, New Jersey. In 
1774 he published the Pretty Story, a political allegory, 
in which he held up to ridicule the encroachments of the 
British Parliament upon the rights of the American settlers. 
He followed up this first pamphlet with two others, The 
Prophecy and The Political Catechism. These writings 
met with great success and helped not a little to educate 
the American people for political independence. Hop¬ 
kinson represented New Jersey in the Congress of 1776, 
and was one of the signers of the Declaration. In 1779, 
he was made Judge of the Admiralty of Pennsylvania; 
and, in 1790, passed to the Bench of the District Court of 
the United States. 

Besides his political writings, he is the authpr of a 
number of poems and satirical pieces. The best known of 
his poems are The Battle of the Kegs , The Treaty, A 
Camp Ballad, the Description of a Church , and The 
New Roof 

His Battle of the Kegs has been considered the most 
popular of the American Revolutionary ballads. The 
New Roof is a remarkable allegory, containing the argu¬ 
ments of debate in the convention that framed the Consti¬ 
tution of the United States. 

His satirical pieces are chiefly: The typographical 
Mode of conducting a quarrel, Thoughts on the Diseases 
of the Mind, Essay on Whitewashing, and Modern 
Learning. The humor and ridicule displayed in these 







432 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


essays, did much to mitigate the violent party recrimina¬ 
tions which disfigured the newspaper controversies of the 
day. 

For wit and satire he has been compared to Lucian, 
Swift, and Rabelais; but, unlike to them, he is generally 
free from vulgarity, and always on the side of patriotism, 
virtue, and science. 

Hopkinson was also a reformer in the cause of education. 
In various papers, as Modern Learning , and the Ambi¬ 
guity of the English Language, he derides the puzzles 
and perplexities of the methods used in the study of 
grammar, metaphysics, and science. 

At the end of his life he carefully arranged his literary 
productions for a uniform edition ; but, before he had exe¬ 
cuted his project, he was struck dead with apoplexy in 
1790. 

The Battle of the Kegs. 

Gallants, attend and hear a friend 
Trill forth harmonious ditty : 

Strange things I’ll tell which late befell 
In Philadelphia city. 

’Twas early day, as poets say, 

Just when the sun was rising, 

A soldier stood on a log of wood, 

And saw a thing surprising. 

As in amaze he stood to gaze, 

The truth can’t he denied, sir, 

He spied a score of kegs or more 
Come floating down the tide, sir. 

A sailor too, in, jerkin blue, 

This strange appearance viewing, 

First damn’d his eyes, in great surprise, 

Then said, “ Some mischief’s brewing. 






THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD. 


433 


“ These kegs, I’m told, the rebels hold, 
Pack’d up like pickled herring; 

And they’re come down t’ attack the town, 
In this new way of ferrying.” 

The soldier flew, the sailor too, 

And scar’d almost to death, sir, 

Wore out their shoes to spread the news, 
And ran till out of breath, sir. 

Now up and down throughout the town 
Most frantic scenes were acted ; 

And some ran here, and others there, 

Like men almost distracted. 

Some fire cried, which some denied, 

But said the earth had quaked ; 

And girls and boys, with hideous noise, 
Kan thro’ the streets half naked. 

Sir William he, snug as a flea, 

Lay all this time a snoring. 


Now in a fright he starts upright, 
Awak’d by such a clatter ; 

He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries, 
For God’s sake, what’s the matter ? 

At his bed-side he then espy’d 
Sir Erskine at command, sir; 

Upon one foot he had one boot, 

And th’ other in his hand, sir. 

“ Arise, arise ! ” Sir Erskine cries, 

“ The rebels—more’s the pity, 

Without a boat are all afloat, 

And rang’d before the city. 


37 



434 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


“ The motley crew, in vessels new, 

With Satan for their guide, sir, 

Pack’d up in bags, or wooden kegs, 

Come driving down the tide, sir. 

“ Therefore prepare for bloody war, 

These kegs must all be routed, 

Or surely we despised shall be, 

And British courage doubted.” 

The royal band now ready stand, 

All rang’d in dread array, sir, 

With stomach stout to see it out, 

And make a bloody day, sir. 

The cannons roar from shore to shore, 

The small arms make a rattle ; 

Since wars began I’m sure no man 
E’er saw so strange a battle. 

The rebel dales, the rebel vales, 

With rebel trees surrounded ; 

The distant woods, the hills and floods, 
With rebel echoes sounded. 

The fisli below swam to and fro, 

Attack’d from ev’ry quarter ; 

Why sure, thought they, the devil’s to pay, 
’Mongst folks above the water. 

The kegs, ’tis said, tho’ strongly made, 

Of rebel staves and hoops, sir, 

Could not oppose their powerful foes, 

The conq’ring British troops, sir. 

From morn till night these men of might 
Display’d amazing courage; 

And when the sun was fairly down, 

Retir’d to sup their porrage. 






THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD. 


435 


An hundred men with each a pen, 

Or more, upon my word, sir, 

It is most true, would be too few 
Their valor to record, sir. 

Such feats did they perform that day, 
Against these wicked kegs, sir, 

That years to come, if they get home, 
They’ll make their boasts and brags, sir. 


JEREMY BELKNAP, 1744-1798. 

Jeremy Belknap, a local historian of some merit, was a 
native of Boston. After graduating at Harvard and 
teaching school for a few years, he became a Congrega¬ 
tional minister in New Hampshire, where he resided during 
twenty years. He was one of the founders of the Massa¬ 
chusetts Historical Society, incorporated in 1794, which 
served as a precedent and example for similar organiza¬ 
tions throughout the country. After years of research and 
study, Belknap produced The History of New Hampshire , 
which has had several editions. The candor and agreeable 
style of the author deserve no less praise than his tact and 
fidelity. He wrote also The Foresters , an allegory, in 
which the leading States and interests of the American 
continent are represented under catch-words of easy inter¬ 
pretation. The Foresters themselves are the people of the 
United States; Onontio is Canada; Peter Bull-Frog, New 
l r ork; Robert Lumber, New Hampshire; Walter Pipe¬ 
load, Virginia. There are found in this book some good 
specimens of sly humor, hit off in a neat, quiet style. 

Belknap published also a number of fugitive essays, 
biographies, historical disquisitions, etc., etc. 

His death, caused by paralysis, occurred suddenly in 
1798, in Boston, where he had spent the last eleven years 
of his life. 



436 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


DAVID EAMSAY, 1749-1815. 

David Ramsay, one of our popular historians, was born 
in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, the son of an Irish 
emigrant. After graduating at Princeton College in 1165, 
and teaching for two years, he commenced the study of 
medicine in Philadelphia under Dr. Rush, and entered 
upon its practice in Maryland, in 1772. On the follow¬ 
ing year he removed to Charleston, S. C., and soon 
rose to distinction by displaying great powers of mind, 
particularly in the cause of the Revolution. He was in 
Congress from 1782 to 1785, and served one year as its 
President. 

From the pen of Ramsay we have a History of the 
American Revolution , said to be at once concise and 
complete; a Life of Washington, dedicated to the youth 
of the United States, a well-written abridgment of Mar¬ 
shall’s ; and a History of South Carolina, from its settle¬ 
ment in 1670 to the year 1808, a very interesting and 
faithful work. Besides these productions he published a 
number of essays connected with the medical profession, 
and a Eulogiurn on Dr. Rush. 

Dr. Ramsay was remarkable for the virtues of his private 
life. In every way that could advance the general welfare 
of society he was active and zealous, even to imprudence, 
as the wreck of his private fortune bears witness. His 
industry was proverbial—carrying out to its maximum the 
economy of time as practised by Franklin and Rush. 
He slept but four hours, rose before daylight, and 
meditated, book in hand, while he waited for the dawn. 
In 1815, when he had completed his eighty-sixth year, 
he suddenly fell a victim to the murderous attack of a 
lunatic, by whom he was shot in open day in the streets of 
Charleston. 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD. 


43 Y 


HUGH HENRY BRACKENRIDGE, 1748-1816. 

Hugh Henry Brackenridge, well noted for his social wit 
and a fine political satire, was born in Scotland in 1748. 
He was brought by his father to America, when he was five 
years old. The family settled down on a small lease farm 
in York County, Pennsylvania, on the borders of Mary¬ 
land. With the scanty means which he laid up by teaching 
a school in Maryland, he made his way to the College of 
Princeton, and managed to support himself in the higher 
classes by teaching the lower. In conjunction with Fre¬ 
neau, he delivered at the Commencement, in 1771, a poem 
in dialogue on the Rising Glory of America. After taking 
his first degree, he continued a tutor in the College, and 
studied divinity. Like Dwight and Barlow, he was a 
chaplain in the Revolutionary army, preaching political 
sermons in the camp. But unwilling publicly to maintain 
doctrines in which he could not privately believe, he relin¬ 
quished the pulpit for the bar, and studied law with Samuel 
Chase at Annapolis, Maryland. In 1781, he established 
himself at Pittsburg, from which place he was sent to the 
State Legislature. The scenes which he passed through, 
and his experience of political life, gave him the material 
for his Modern Chivalry , or the Adventures of Captain 
Farrago, and Teague O'Regan, his Servant, the last 
portion of which was issued in 1806. In the West, 
Modern Chivalry is regarded as a kind of aboriginal 
classic. It has the rough flavor of the frontier settlement 
in its manly sentiment, and not particularly delicate expres¬ 
sion. The story with its few incidents is modelled upon 
Hudibras and Don Quixote. The object of the author 
was to sow a few seeds of political wisdom among his 
fellow-citizens, then little experienced in the use of political 
power, and his lessons in this way arc profitable still. 
37* 




438 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


Among liis other works are Incidents of the Insurrection 
in the Western Parts of Pennsylvania , and numerous 
miscellanies which, ‘ if collected,’ says Duyckinck, ‘ would 
form a pleasing and instructive commentary on his times.’ 

Having been appointed, in 1799, Judge of the Supreme 
Court of Pennsylvania, he filled the office with honor till 
his death in 1816. 

Captain Farrago’s Reply to a Challenge. 

Sir: I have two objections to this duel matter. The one is, 
lest I should hurt you ; and the other is, lest you should hurt me ; 

I do not see any good it would do me to put a bullet thro’ any 
part of your body. I could make no use of you when dead for 
any culinary purpose, as I would a rabbit or turkey. I am no 
cannibal to feed on the flesh of men. Why then shoot down a 
human creature, of which I could make no use ? A buffalo 
would be better meat. For though your flesh ma} r be delicate 
and tender, yet it wants that firmness and consistency which 
takes and retains salt. At any rate, it would not be fit for long 
sea-voyages. You might make a good barbacue, it is true, being 
of the nature of a raccoon or an opossum ; but people are not in 
the habit of barbacuing anything human now. As to your hide, 
it is not worth taking off, being little better than that of a year- 
old colt. 

It would seem to me a strange thing to shoot at a man that 
would stand still to be shot at, inasmuch as I have been here¬ 
tofore used to shoot at things flying, or running, or jumping. 
Were you on a tree now, like a squirrel, endeavoring to hide 
yourself in the branches, or like a raccoon, that after much eyeing, 
and spying, I observe at length, in the crutch of a tall oak, with 
boughs and leaves intervening, so that I could just get a sight of 
his hinder parts, I should think it pleasurable enough to take a 
shot at you. But as it is, there is no skill or judgment requisite 
either to discover or take you down. 

As to myself, I do not like to stand in the way of anything 
harmful. I am under apprehensions you might hit me. That 
being the case, I think it most advisable to stay at some distance. 





THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD. 


439 


If } r ou want to try your pistol, take some object, a tree or a barn¬ 
door, about my dimensions If you hit that, send me word ; and 
I shall acknowledge that, if I had been in the same place, you 
might also have hit me. 


ALEXANDER HAMILTON, 1757-1804. 

Alexander Hamilton, one of our best if not the first of 
our political writers, the right arm of Washington in peace 
and war, was born in Nevis, one of the West India 
Islands, in 1757. At the age of fifteen he came to New 
York, and was entered as a private student in King’s, now 
Columbia College. When only seventeen, he published a 
series of admirable essays on the rights of the Colonies. 
Before he was nineteen, he joined the Revolutionary army 
as a captain of artillery; and, at twenty, he became aide- 
de-camp of General Washington. At the close of the 
year 1782, he took his seat in Congress; and, in 1787, he 
was a delegate to the Convention which framed the Con¬ 
stitution of the United States. After the adjournment of 
the Convention, he wrote, in conjunction with Madison 
and Jay, a series of papers on the Constitution, which did 
much towards bringing about its adoption by the several 
States. These essays were afterwards collected and pub¬ 
lished in a volume under the title of The Federalist , and 
constitute one of the most profound and lucid treatises on 
politics that have ever been written. Hamilton was the 
author of fifty-one out of the eighty-five numbers of The 
Federalist; and, remarkable as are those of his illustrious 
associates, his are easily distinguished by their superior 
comprehensiveness, practicalness, originality, and con¬ 
densed and polished diction. Of his eloquence we have 
traditions which represent- it as fascinating; but few of 
his speeches were reported, and even these very imper¬ 
fectly. 



440 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


Hamilton was certainly a man of superior intellectual 
capacity, and of great firmness and energy of character; 
and no one, with the exception of the illustrious Wash¬ 
ington, helped more to give a regular organization to 
the newly-established government. The reports which 
he published as Secretary of the Treasury, have given 
him the reputation of the best financier of the New 
World. 

On the death of Washington in 1799, Hamilton suc¬ 
ceeded to the chief command of the national forces, raised 
for the purpose of carrying on war against the leaders of 
the French revolutionary government. On the disbanding 
of the army, he retired to private life, and practised at the 
bar until 1804, when his life was terminated by a wound 
received in a duel with Vice-President Aaron Burr. His 
death excited intense regrets, and his loss was at the time 
mourned as a national calamity. 

THOMAS JEFFERSON, 1743-1826. 

Thomas Jefferson, whose name is indissolubly connected 
with the Declaration of Independence, was born in Albe¬ 
marle County, Virginia, in 1743. After receiving t<he 
lessons of private teachers at Home, he completed his 
classical education at William and Mary College. He 
studied law under the celebrated George Wythe, and 
entered upon the practice of his profession in 1767. Two 
years after, he was elected to the provincial Legislature, 
and then began to manifest the most advanced opposition 
to the colonial policy of England. In 1774 appeared in a 
pamphlet form his Summary View of the Rights of British 
America, which ably and boldly set forth our own rights, 
and pointed out the various violations of those rights by 
the English government. Jefferson was one of the dele- 


TIIE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD. 


441 


gates from Virginia who moved that Congress should 
declare the United Colonies free and independent States. 
In the Committee appointed to frame the declaration and 
consisting of Adams, Franklin, Sherman, Livingston, and 
Jefferson, the last-named was made chairman, and re¬ 
quested to draw up a paper setting forth the causes and 
the necessity of resorting to arms. His draft was adopted 
with some slight modifications, and on the Fourth of July, 
IT!6, was signed by Congress. 

Jefferson was successively Governor of his own State, 
Minister in Paris, Secretary of State, Vice-President, and, 
finally, in 1801, President of the United States. It was 
at the time he held the office of Secretary, that the rivalry 
broke out between him and Hamilton, which divided the 
country into two great parties, the Federalists and the 
Antifederalists.* We may here be content to remark, that 
this division of parties has prompted the unbounded praise 
and censure respectively lavished upon their great leaders. 
After two terms of presidency, Jefferson retired to his 
country-seat, at Monticello, and for the remainder of his 
career lived the life of a planter and student. The 
unstinted hospitality with which he received his number¬ 
less visitors, so much straitened his resources that he came 
to the determination of selling his library to Congress for 
twenty thousand dollars. It consisted of about seven 
thousand volumes, and was arranged under the Baconian 
classification of memory, reason or*judgment, and imagina¬ 
tion. His interest in the cause of education led to the 
foundation of the University of Virginia, of which he 
filled the duties of first Rector. 


♦The Federalists, so far as the leading principle is concerned, are repre¬ 
sented by the Republican party of to-day. The Antifederalists, called 
Republicans as early as 1798, have since 1832 come under the denomina¬ 
tion of Democrats. 






442 


' AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


In the midst of his political strifes, Jefferson wrote his 
Notes on Virginia , which give a favorable impression of 
the writer. His Manual of Parliamentary Practice is 
still referred to as an authority, at Washington and else¬ 
where. His Autobiography , coming up to the year 1790, 
and his Correspondence from 1775 to his death, were pub¬ 
lished in 1829 by his grandson T. J. Randolph.- The 
Autobiography is far from possessing the charm of Frank¬ 
lin’s. His Correspondence seems to have been written 
with great care. It is indeed by his private letters, as 
much as by his public acts, that Jefferson wielded an 
effective power through the length and breadth of the 
country. In general, his style is easy, flexible, and familiar; 
at times, very vigorous ; at others, diffuse. The reader of 
his works should be in guard against those portions of 
them in which he assails Christianity and in particular the 
authority of the Scriptures. “But, indeed, it is hardly 
conceivable,” says Allibone, “that any intelligent and 
candid mind could be perverted by the crudities and self- 
contradictory sophisms which distinguish the theological 
speculations of the sage of Monticello.” Many of his 
views on religion, morals, and politics were but reflexes of 
the radicalism of the French revolution, of which he had 
been a sympathizing spectator. 

Thomas Jefferson died on the Fourth of July, 1826, just 
half a century from the date of the Declaration of Inde¬ 
pendence. 

Passage of the Potomac through the Blue Ridge. 

From Notes on Virginia. 

The passage of the Potomac through the Blue Ridge is perhaps 
one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. You stand on a 
very high point of land. On your right comes up the Shenan¬ 
doah, having ranged along the foot of the mountain a hundred 





TI1E REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD. 


443 


miles to seek a vent. On your left approaches the Potomac, 
seeking a passage also. In the moment of their junction, they 
rush together against the mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off 
to the sea. The first glance at this scene hurries our senses into 
the opinion that this earth has been created in time ; that the 
mountains were formed first; that the rivers began to flow after¬ 
wards ; that, in this place particularly, they have been dammed 
up by the Blue Ridge mountains, and have formed an ocean which 
filled the whole valley; that, continuing to rise, they have at 
length broken over at this spot, and have torn the mountain down 
from its summit to its base. The piles of rock on each hand, but 
particularly on the Shenandoah, the evident marks of their dis- 
rupture and avulsion from their beds by the most powerful agents 
of nature, corroborate the impression. But the distant finishing 
which Nature has given to the picture is of a very different 
character. It is a true contrast to the foreground. It is as placid 
and delightful as that is wild and tremendous. For, the mountain 
being cloven asunder, she presents to your eye, through the cleft, 
a small catch of smooth blue horizon, at an infinite distance in the 
plain country, inviting you, as it were, from the riot and tumult 
roaring around, to pass through the breach, and participate of the 
calm below. Here the eye ultimately composes itself; and that 
way, too, the road happens actually to lead. You cross the Poto¬ 
mac above its junction, pass along its side through the base of 
the mountain for three miles, its terrible precipices hanging in 
fragments over you, and within about twenty miles reach Fred- 
ericktown, and the fine country round that. This scene is worth 
a voyage across the Atlantic. Yet here, as in the neighborhood 
of the Natural Bridge, are people who have passed their lives 
within half dozen miles, and have never been to survey these 
monuments of a war between rivers and mountains, which must 
have shaken the earth itself to its centre. 

Character of Washington. 

His mind was great and powerful, without being of the very 
first order; his penetration strong, though not so acute as that of 
Newton, Bacon, or Locke; and, as far as he saw, no judgment 
was ever sounder. He wa3 slow in operation, being little aided 
by invention or imagination, but sure in conclusion. Hence the 





444 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


common remark of his officers, of the advantage he derived from 
councils of war, where, hearing all suggestions, he selected 
whatever was best; and certainly no general ever planned ^his 
battles more judiciously. But if deranged during the course of 
the action, if any member of his plan was dislocated by sudden 
circumstances, he was slow in a readjustment. The consequence 
was, that he often failed in the field, but rarely against an enemy 
in station, as at Boston and York. He was incapable of fear, 
meeting personal dangers with the calmest unconcern. Perhaps 
the strongest feature in his character was prudence, never acting 
until every circumstance, every consideration was maturely 
weighed ; refraining, if he saw a doubt; but, when once decided, 
going through with his purpose, whatever obstacles opposed. 
His integrity was the most pure, his justice the most inflexible I 
have ever known ; no motives of interest or consanguinity, of 
friendship or hatred, being able to bias his decision. He was, 
indeed, in every sense of the word, a wise, a good, and a great 
man. 

His temper was naturally irritable and high-toned; but reflec¬ 
tion and resolution had obtained a firm and habitual ascendency 
over it. If ever, however, it broke its bounds, he was most 
tremendous in his wrath. In his expenses he was honorable, but 
exact; liberal in contributions to whatever promised utility, 
but frowning and unyielding on all visionary projects and all 
unworthy calls on his charity. His heart was not warm in its 
affections; but he exactly calculated every man's value, and gave 
him a solid esteem proportioned to it. His person, you know., 
was fine; his stature exactly what one would wish; his deport¬ 
ment easy, erect, and noble ; the best horseman of his age, and the 
most graceful figure that could be seen on horseback. Although 
in the circle of his friends, where he might be unreserved with 
safety, he took a free share in conversation, his colloquial talents 
were not above mediocrity, possessing neither copiousness of ideas 
nor fluency of words. In public, when called on for a sudden 
opinion, he was unready, short, and embarrassed. Yet he wrote 
readily, rather diffusely, in an easy and correct style. This he 
had acquired by conversation with the world; for his education 
was merely reading, writing, and common arithmetic, to which 
he added surveying at a late day, His time was employed in 
action chiefly, reading little, and that only in agriculture and 




THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD. 445 

English history. His correspondence became necessarily exten¬ 
sive, and, with journalizing his agricultural proceedings, occupied 
most of his leisure hours within doors. On the whole, his 
character was, in its mass, perfect; in nothing bad, in few points 
indifferent; and it may truly be said, that never did nature and 
fortune combine more perfectly to make a man great, and to 
place him in the same constellation with whatever worthies have 
merited from man an everlasting remembrance. For his was 
the singular destiny and merit, of leading the armies of his 
country successfully through an arduous war for the establishment 
of its independence ; of conducting its councils through the birth 
of her government, new in its forms and principles, until it had 
settled down to a quiet and orderly train ; and of scrupulously 
obeying the laws through the whole of his career, civil and 
military, of which the history of the world furnishes no other 
example. 

JOHN JAY, 1745-1829. 

John Jay, one of our leading statesmen and political 
writers, was born in the city of New York, in 1745. 
After graduating at King’s College, he entered upon the 
study of the law. In 1774, he was chosen a delegate to 
the first American Congress, and as a member of a com¬ 
mittee wrote the Address to the people of Great Britain , 
one of the most eloquent productions of the time. He 
contributed five numbers to The Federalist; and, doubt¬ 
less, he would have contributed more, had he not received 
a serious wound, whilst endeavoring to preserve order in 
New l r ork during the Doctors’ Mob. These and other 
political papers of Jay are no less distinguished for purity 
of style than for depth of reasoning. 

Jay filled also important posts, as those of Minister to 
Spain, negotiator of the peace with Great Britain, Sec¬ 
retary of State, Chief Justice of the United States, and 
Governor of his own State—abundant honors and employ¬ 
ments, which still left him nearly thirty years of rural 
38 





446 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


retirement at Bedford, N. Y., where he died in 1829, at 
the age of eighty-four, universally honored and beloved. 

Moral worth and sober judgment have had no finer 
exemplification in our best political annals, than in the life 
of John Jay. The letters between him and Washington, 
various extracts of which are contained in Marshall’s 
History, exhibit the elevated place he held in the confidence 
and esteem of that illustrious man. 

From the Address of the New York Convention. 

Under the auspices and direction of Divine Providence, your 
forefathers removed to the wilds and wilderness of America. By 
their industry, they made it fruitful—and by their virtue, a happy 
country. And we should still have enjoyed the blessings of peace 
and plenty, if we had not forgotten the source from which these 
blessings flowed: and permitted our country to be contaminated 
by the many shameful vices which have prevailed among us. 

It is a well-known truth, that no virtuous people were ever 
oppressed ; and it is also true, that a scourge was never wanting 
to those of an opposite character. Even the Jews, those favorites 
of Heaven, met with the frowns, whenever they forgot the smiles 
of their benevolent Creator. By tyrants of Egypt, of Babylon, 
of Syria, and of Rome, they were severely chastised ; and those 
tyrants themselves, when they had executed the vengeance of 
Almighty God, their own crimes bursting on their own heads, 
received the rewards justly due to their violation of the sacred 
rights of mankind. 

You were born equally free with the Jews, and have as good 
a right to be exempted from the arbitrary domination of Britain, 
as they had from the invasions of Egypt, Babylon, Syria, or 
Rome! But they, for their wickedness, were permitted to be 
scourged'by the latter; and we, for our wickedness, are scourged 
by tyrants as cruel and implacable as those. Our case, how¬ 
ever, is peculiarly distinguished from theirs. Their enemies 
were strangers, unenlightened, and bound to them by no ties of 
gratitude or consanguinity. Our enemies, on the contrary, call 
themselves Christians. They are of a nation and people bound 


TIIE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD. 447 

* us strongest ties—a people, by whose side we have fought 

and bled ; whose power we have contributed to raise; who owe 
much of their wealth to our industry, and whose grandeur has 
been augmented by our exertions. 

"i ou may be told that your forts have been taken ; your country 
ravaged ; and that, therefore, God is not with you. It is true 
that some forts have been taken, that our country hath been 
ravaged, and that our Maker is displeased with us. But it is also 
true, that the King of Heaven is not, like the king of Britain, 
implacable. If we turn from onr sins, He will turn from his 
anger. Then will our arms be crowned with success, and the 
pride and power of our enemies, like the arrogance and pride of 
Nebuchadnezzar, will vanish away. Let a general reformation 
of manners take place—let universal charity, public spirit, and 
private virtue be inculcated, encouraged, and practised. Unite 
in preparing for a vigorous defence of your country, as if all 
depended on your own exertions. And when you have done all 
things, then rely upon the good Providence of Almighty God for 
success, in full confidence that without his blessing, all our efforts 
will inevitably fail. 

JAMES MADISON, 1751-1836. 

James Madison, the fourth President of the United 
States, was born in King George County, Virginia, in 
1751. Whilst at Princeton College, he so conducted 
himself as to merit this honorable testimonial from its 
President, Witherspoon, that, in his whole career at the 
college, he had never known him say or do an indiscreet 
thing. The excessive application of Madison to his studies 
injured his health. He at times allowed but three hours 
to sleep, giving to his books the rest of the twenty-four 
hours. He held several important offices in his own State, 
was a member of Congress in 1780, and a delegate to the 
Convention appointed to frame the Constitution. It is a 
remarkable fact, that he was the only one to preserve the 
record of the debates in that famous assembly. They were 





448 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


published in 1840, and are amongst the most valuable 
materials of our country’s history. It is no mean part of 
his glory as a patriot and constitutional writer, that twenty- 
nine essays of The Federalist are from his pen. All his 
writings would make about fifteen octavo volumes. They 
are chiefly on constitutional, political, and historical sub¬ 
jects ; but among them are some relating to eminent 
persons and of a miscellaneous character, which on this 
account are more generally interesting. His style is clear, 
exact, and justly modulated. 

After serving two presidential terms, Madison retired to 
his home in Virginia. With the exception of his visits to 
Charlottesville, in his capacity of Rector of the University 
of Virginia, he passed his time in his retreat, in the 
pursuits of literature and the study of natural history. 
He expired calmly in 1836, at the advanced age of eighty^ 
five. Shortly before his death, as if to gather up the great 
constitutional lessons of his life, he penned these sentences 
of advice to his countrymen : “ The advice nearest to my 
heart, and dearest to my convictions is, that the union of 
the States be cherished and perpetuated. Let the avowed 
enemy to it be regarded as a Pandora, with her box 
opened; and the disguised one, as the serpent creeping 
with deadly wiles into Paradise.” 


JOHN TKUMBULL, 1750-1831. 

John Trumbull, the author of McFingal, was the son 
of a Congregational minister in the district of Watertown, 
Connecticut. Sent to Yale, he was graduated with great 
honors at the age of seventeen, and then remained three 
years longer at the institution, devoting himself principally 
to the study of polite letters. In 1771, he became tutor 
at the College; and in the following years published his 


TIIE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD. 


449 


Progress of Dullness , a satyrical poem in octo-syllabic 
measure. In the first part, he exposes to ridicule the 
methods of education that then prevailed. Tom Brainless, 
a country clown, too indolent to follow the plough, is sent 
by his weak-minded parents to a college where a degree is 
gained by residence; and soon after he appears as a full- 
wigged parson, half-fanatic, half-fool, to do his share 
toward bringing Christianity into contempt. “ In the 
second part, a blow is aimed at the coxcombry of fashionable 
life in the person of Dick Hairbrain, a conceited and idle 
fop. The third part describes the life and fortunes of Miss 
Harriet Simper, who, in ignorance and folly, if not in 
hooped rotundity, is the counterpart of the said Hairbrain, 
by whose charms she is captivated. But, failing in her 
efforts, she consoles herself in later years with the love of 
the profound Brainless, and their marriage concludes the 
poem.” * 

At the termination of the war in 1782, Trumbull com¬ 
pleted McFingal, the first part of which he had published 
as early as 1775. This poem is modelled upon Hudibras 
in the construction of its verse and many of its turns of 
humor; but it is so thoroughly American in its ideas and 
subject-matter, that it soon ceases to be an imitation. 
President Dwight of Yale College says of it, that ‘it is 
not inferior in wit and humor to Hudibras, and in every 
other respect is superior.’ The hero, McFingal, is a 
Scottish justice of the peace residing in the vicinity of 
Boston, an unyielding loyalist, who endeavors to make 
proselytes to the British cause by arguments which militate 
against himself. His zeal and logic are together irre¬ 
sistibly ludicrous, but there is nothing in its character 
unnatural, as it is common for men who read more than 


*38 


"'Cleveland. 





450 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


they think, or attempt to discuss questions they do not 
understand, to use arguments which refute the positions 
they wish to defend. In the midst of his discussion, 
McFingal is seized by his enemies of the opposite political 
party, “tried by the mob, convicted of violent Toryism, 
and tarred and feathered. On being set at liberty, he 
assembles his friends around him in his cellar, and 
harangues them until they are dispersed by the Whigs, 
when he escapes to Boston, and the poem closes. These 
are all the important incidents of the story, yet it is never 
tedious; and few commence reading it, who do not follow 
it to the end and regret its termination.”* 

For many years Trumbull was a member of the State 
Legislature of Connecticut, and in 1801 was appointed a 
judge of the Superior Court. In 1825, he removed to the 
residence of his daughter in the city of Detroit, where he 
died in 1831 of a gradual decline, at the age of eighty-one. 

0 

PHILIP FRENEAU, 1752-1832. 

Philip Freneau, a popular political versifier in the period 
of the American Revolution, was born in New York city 
of a Huguenot family. In 1711, we find him a graduate 
of Princeton College, in the same class with James Madi¬ 
son, with whom he continued afterwards to be in close 
intimacy. During the revolutionary war, he published 
those pieces of political burlesque and invective, which 
made his name familiar and popular throughout the coun¬ 
try. He parodied in an amusing manner the speeches of 
the king and his ministers; and every event on sea or land 
he celebrated in verses easily understood, and none the 
less admired, perhaps, for a dash of coarseness by which 
most of them are characterized. 


♦Griswold. 



THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD. 


451 


In the editorials of the National Gazette in It92 and 
1793, the first examples were given by Freneau of that 
partisan abuse which has ever since been the shame of 
American politics. For many years he was engaged in 
seafaring. The second war with Great Britain, in 1812, 
gave him a new occasion to write songs and ballads. 

Freneau was a man of considerable genius; his appre¬ 
ciation of nature was tender and sympathetic; his classical 
knowledge extensive, his pen versatile and ever ready; 
but his execution was oftentimes careless. He wrote many 
small poems, some of them of uncommon freshness and 
originality, but he left no great work standing as a monu¬ 
ment to his memory. His best pieces are The Pictures 
of Columbus, The Indian Student , The Indian burying 
Ground, The Man of Ninety, and May to April. Philip 
Freneau died near Freehold, New Jersey, December, 1832. 


May to April. 

Without your showers 
I breed no flowers ; 

Each field a barren waste appears ; 

If you don’t weep, 

My blossoms sleep, 

They take such pleasure in your tears. 

As your decay 
Makes room for May, 

So I must part with all that’s mine ; 
My balmy breeze, 

My blooming trees, 

To torrid zones tlieir sweets resign. 

For April dead 
My shades I spread, 

To her I owe my dress so gay ; 





452 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


Of daughters three 
It falls on me 

To close our triumphs on one day. 

Thus to repose 
All nature goes 

Month after month must find its doom; 
Time on the wing, 

May ends the Spring 
And Summer frolics o’er her tomb. 

Tiie Wild Honeysuckle. 

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, 

Hid in this silent dull retreat, 

Untoucli’d thy honey’d blossoms blow, 

Unseen thy little branches greet: 

No roving foot shall crush thee here, 

No busy hiind provoke a tear. 

By Nature’s self in white array’d, 

She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, 

And planted here the guardian shade, 

And sent soft waters running by ; 

Thus quietly thy summer goes, 

Thy days declining to repose. 

Smit with these charms that must decay, 

I grieve to see your future doom, 

They died,—nor were those flowers more gay, 
The flowers that did in Eden bloom ; 
Unpitying frosts and Autumn’s power 
Shall leave no vestige of this flower. 

From morning suns and evening dews 
At first thy little being came: 

If nothing once, you nothing lose, 

For when you die you are the same ; 

The space between is but an hour, 

The frail duration of a flower. 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


453 


THIRD PERIOD. 

THE PRESENT CENTURY. 

The Progress of American Literature.—Joseph Dennie. 
— Charles Brockden Brown .— William Wirt.—John 
Marshall.—James Hillliouse .— Washington Allslon .— 
John England.—Daniel Webster.—Fenimore Cooper. 
—Lydia H. Sigourney .— William H. Prescott .— 
Washington Irving.—Robert Walsh.—James Pauld¬ 
ing. — Fitz- Greene Ilalleck.—Jared Sparks.—George 
Ticknor.—Archbishop Spalding.—Richard H. Dana. 
— William C. Bryant.—George Bancroft.—Henry 
W. Longfellow. 

The Progress op American Literature. 

This era has exhibited, in a remarkable degree, the 
results of increased intellectual activity. The extraor¬ 
dinary facilities of communication with all parts of the 
world, occasioned by the successive adaptation of steam 
and electricity to the purposes of navigation and commerce, 
and the new inventions daily springing up in every depart¬ 
ment of art and science, not to speak of the increase of 
libraries, learned institutions, and galleries of art, as well 
as of innumerable associations for moral and intellectual 
culture—all these things give evidence of the steady 
advance of civilization in our country, and furnish the 
materials with which to rear a noble structure of national 
literature. 

Among a host of representative names, Calhoun and 
Webster have illustrated the principles of political science; 
Marshall, Kent, and Story, have shed new light in the 
walks of jurisprudence. In natural and experimental 




454 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


philosophy, it is only necessary to refer to the names- of 
Silliman, Henry, and Agassiz. For philological labors, 
Worcester and Webster are universally known and appre¬ 
ciated, whilst, for success in the comparative study of lan¬ 
guages, Whitney holds the first rank, the equal of Max 
Muller. No European ornithologists can be ranked before 
Wilson and Audubon. Paulding, Irving, and Cooper, have 
opened new provinces in fiction and polite literature. 
Hillhouse, Bryant, and Longfellow, have sung their pro¬ 
found and sweet melodies. Prescott and Bancroft are 
eminent as historians. In fine, Brownson’s contributions to 
Christian philosophy and Kenrick’s to Catholic theology, 
have made their names preeminent in America, and favor¬ 
ably known to European readers. 

As the century is verging to its close, the more general 
and more intense eagerness after knowledge that is felt in 
all classes of society, must produce still greater results 
than those already achieved, unless we suffer two threat¬ 
ening evils to predominate—a growing spirit of infidelity, 
and a morbid appetite for the sensational novel. These 
evils, by their mischievous influence on the mind and the 
heart, would certainly disappoint us of the precious fruits 
of literature which we had a right to expect. 

JOSEPH DENNIE, 1768-1812. 

Joseph Dennie, the author of The Lay Preacher , was 
born in Boston, in the year 1T68. He acquired his litera¬ 
ture at Harvard, where he was graduated in It90. Having 
found little encouragement in the profession of the law, 
which he had adopted, he relinquished it for literary pur¬ 
suits, and established in Boston a weekly paper called The 
Taller. But it lived scarcely three months ; and Dennie, 
upon invitation, became in 1795 the editor and afterwards 
the conductor of the Farmer's Museum , published at 



THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


455 


Walpole, New Hampshire. In this periodical appeared 
his Lay Preacher, or short sermons for idle readers, which 
had the fault of irreverence in taking its texts for familiar 
discussion from Scripture; and The Farrago, a series of 
essays full of warm apprehension of the poetic beauties 
of life and literature. In the year 1199, he removed to 
Philadelphia, where, in 1801, he established The Portfolio, 
first issued as a weekly publication, afterwards changed to 
a monthly magazine, which he conducted until his death 
in 1812, and which was continued with varied success till 
1827. 

“ He enjoyed,” says Allibone, “ great reputation as a 
writer during his life and for some years after his decease. 
Patriarchs of the ‘lean and slippered pantaloons’,—who 
perhaps composed a part of the ‘mob of gentlemen who 
wrote with ease’ about the beginning of this century— 
still extol the melodious cadence and liquid flow of the 
essays of the American Addison. We ourselves are so 
old-fashioned as to consider Dennie a charming writer.” 
Dennie possessed a delicate taste, a polished style, a rich 
fund of information ; he did much to refine the taste of the 
people and give them a relish for literary pursuits: but he 
was deficient in industry and discretion, and gradually 
destroyed, by his imprudence, his bodily constitution as 
well as all hopes of fortune. He died in absolute poverty 
at the early age of forty-four—a victim to anxiety and 
complicated disease. 

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN, 1771-1810. 

Charles Brockden Brown, descended from a highly 
respectable Quaker family whose ancestors emigrated with 
William Penn, was born in Philadelphia in 1771. It is 
somewhat remarkable that the first of our novelists, as 





456 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


well as the first of our painters, Benjamin West, should 
have sprung from a sect, which in principle and practice 
manifests a repugnance to, rather than sympathy with, the 
products of the imagination. Brown was not only the 
first person in America that ventured to pursue literature 
as a profession, but almost the first to make an attempt in 
the field of imaginative writing, not connected with the 
advocacy of any question of natural or local interest. We 
find him in 1198 contributing a series of papers entitled 
The Man at Home to the Weekly Magazine, a miscellany 
of some merit published in Philadelphia. In the same 
year appeared Wieland. The success of this novel was 
immediate, and so stimulating to its author that, in the 
December after its publication, he wrote Ormond , or The 
Secret Witness. Then came in close succession the first 
part of Mervyn; Edgar Huntly, or Adventures of a 
Sleep- Walker; the second part of Mervyn ; Clara How¬ 
ard , and Jane Talbot. All these novels are of the 
intensely terrific school, and such as do not leave the 
most pleasant impressions on the mind. Extravagant and 
consummate depravity actuates too many of the characters. 
The scenes may rivet attention, and the plots excite the 
keenest curiosity; yet, they pain the heart beyond the 
privilege of fiction, and leave in the imagination only a 
crowd of terrific phantasms. None of Brown’s novels can 
be said to possess unity in the details, or to be finished in 
the general design and execution. 

In 1799, he published the first number of The Monthly \ 
Magazine and American Review. This work he continued 
with great industry and ability until the end of the year i 
1806. In 1805 he commenced another journal with the 
title of The Literary Magazine and American Register. 

In 1806 he entered upon a new work, a semi-annual 
American Register , five volumes of which he lived to 





TflE TRESENT CENTURY. 457 

complete and publish; it is now and must long be con¬ 
sulted as a valuable body of annals. 

In 1809 it was discovered that his lungs were seriously 
affected, and he consented to travel for the recovery of his 
health. But the remedy was applied too late. He died 
on the twenty-second of February, 1810, at the age of 39. 


WILLIAM WIRT, 1772-1834. 

William Wirt, a distinguished lawyer,. author of the 
Life of Patrick Henry, was born in Bladensburg, Mary¬ 
land, in 1772. At fifteen, he had qualified himself to 
become a private tutor in the family of a schoolmate, who 
had sounded the praises of his companion to his father. 
In 1795, he took up his residence in Virginia, and entered 
upon public life as clerk of the House of Delegates. 
Under the presidency of Munroe, he became Attorney- 
General of the United States, an office which he filled for 
twelve years. The earliest of his literary productions was 
his Letters of the British Spy, ten in number, mainly 
occupied with the writer’s studies of eloquence, and obser¬ 
vations of the leading public speakers of the country. In 
1804, Wirt further gave vent to his literary inclination by 
the publication of some essays in the Richmond Enquirer, 
with the title of The Rainbow. He commenced, in 1810, 
a series of essays on the model of the Spectator, which ran 
through thirty-three numbers of the same journal, under 
the name of The Old Bachelor. His Life of Patrick 
Henry, the most important, in its subject and interest, of 
his literary productions, was published in 1817. 

In the latter part of the year 1828, Wirt removed to 
Baltimore, where he resided for the remainder of his life. 
The Anti-Masonic Convention that assembled in that city 
in 1831, nominated him as their candidate for the presi- 
39 







458 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


dency of the United States. Although he obtained the 
vote of but a single State, it was generally admitted that 
the election of such a man would have been an honor to 
the country. He died of an attack of erysipelas, in Feb¬ 
ruary, 1834. “ The southern temperament,” says Duyc- 

kinck, “ lives in Wirt’s writings—luxuriant, prodigal, self¬ 
reproachful for its uncertain pursuit of advantages, imper¬ 
fect because its own standard is high—but colored with a 
warm flush of feeling. At the bar, his eminent professional 
reputation is preserved with the annals of our highest 
courts, and in some of their most important causes.” 

JOHN MARSHALL, 1755-1835. 

John Marshall, author of the Life of Washington , for 
thirty-five years Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the 
United States, was born in Fauquier county, Virginia, 
Sept. 24, 1755. Although his early education was that of 
a soldier and comparatively limited, his vigorous intellect i 
and judicial mind soon gained him eminence in another 
field of action—the bar. When the Constitution of the 
United States was ratified in 1788 by the Virginia Con¬ 
vention, he was a member of that body, and ably seconded 
its provisions. In 1797, he was sent in conjunction with 
Pinkney and Gerry on a mission to the French Directory; 
and, although the attempt at negotiation was unsuccessful, | 
his letters to the subtle Talleyrand, the French minister of 
foreign affairs, are considered as admirable specimens of 
diplomacy. During the short period that he was in Con¬ 
gress, he ranked among the ablest of that body. In 1801, 
lief became Chief Justice of the United States, an office to 
which his name is inseparably connected on account of the 
learning, intelligence, and integrity with which he pre¬ 
served unsullied till his death the purity and sanctity of ! 






TIIE PRESENT CENTURY. 


459 


the ermine. In 1805 appeared his Life of Washington 
in five octavo volumes. As a narrative, it is faithful and 
conscientious; and it relies on valuable original mate¬ 
rials, the writer having had access to the papers of the 
family. 

It is impossible to speak too highly of the public and 
private worth of this illustrious man. He was remarkable 
for simplicity of manners and kindness of heart, and no 
one ever bore public honors more meekly. Anecdotes of 
the simplicity of Chief Justice Marshall are numerous. 
On one occasion, at the old market in Richmond, meeting 
a fashionably-dressed youth, who was putting on the airs 
of an exquisite, and hearing him call for some one to take 
home for him a turkey which he had just purchased, the 
judge humorously offered himself. He was in his usual 
plain dress, and the youth taking him for a countryman 
accepted his services. The judge carried the turkey home, 
and actually received for his trouble a shilling, which 
proved a very costly retainer to the young man, in the 
amount of chagrin he endured, when he found that his 
porter was the Chief Justice of the United States. Mar¬ 
shall’s example is a beautiful illustration of a truth not 
always seen or acknowledged by the young : that simplicity 
is not more the inevitable accompaniment and ornament of 
true genius, than it is of true greatness. 

Towards the close of his life, having been for some 
months in feeble health, he visited Philadelphia, that 
he might have the benefit of the most skilful medical 
aid, and died in that city on the sixth of July, 1835. Four 
years later, in 1839, there was published in Boston a work 
upon The Federal Constitution, comprising Marshall’s 
leading decisions in the Supreme Court, a lasting monu¬ 
ment of his learning and his wisdom. 




4G0 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


JAMES A. IIILLHOUSE, 1791-1841. 

James A. Hillhouse, principally known as a dramatic 
writer, was born in New Haven, in 1789. He was remark¬ 
able in his boyhood for his strength and dexterity in 
athletic exercises, and for the grace of his deportment. 
At the age of fifteen he was entered at Yale, and main¬ 
tained a high rank in his studies, particularly in English 
composition. The literary credit which he obtained at 
college by his oration On the Education of a Poet, took 
wider proportions when, in 1812, he published his first 
poem, The Judgment, a Vision, which describes the awful 
scenes of the Last Day. It was received with enthusiastic 
praise on both sides of the Atlantic, but it has not kept 
its ground. For twelve years our poet then engaged in 
commercial pursuits, meanwhile producing Percy's Masque, 
a drama in five acts. In the language of W. C. Bryant, 
his fellow-poet, ‘ there is no powerful development of char¬ 
acter, but the characters are consistent and well sustained.’ 
He was congratulated on having escaped a florid and 
declamatory manner, and advised to study a style still 
more idiomatic and easy. In 1824 came Hadad, a sacred 
drama, much praised at the time, and still generally con¬ 
sidered as his best poem. Hillhouse is also the author of 
several orations, the principal of which are the Phi Beta 
Kappa discourse On some of the Considerations which 
should influence an Epic or a Tragic writer in the 
Choice of an Era; the Discourse on the Delations of 
Literature to a Eepublican Government, and that in 
Commemoration of the Life and Services of General 
Lafayette; they are all characterized as thoughtful, ener¬ 
getic, and very polished. 

He died in 1841, 


TIIE PRESENT CENTURY. 


4G1 


WASHINGTON ALLSTON, 1779-1843. 

Washington Allston, a writer of elegance botli in poetry 
and prose, and a great historical painter, was born at 
j Charleston, South Carolina, in 1779. At the age of 
seventeen, he was sent to New England to complete his 
education, and was graduated at Harvard College in 1800. 
He then returned to Charleston, and, disposing of his 
share of the paternal inheritance at some sacrifice, with a 
view to the support of his studies abroad, he embarked for 
London in 1801, and became a student of the Royal 
Academy of Painting, at that time under the presidency 
of Benjamin West. For three years he applied himself 
closely to the more secret labors of his art, and laid securely 
the foundations of his future eminence. In 1804, he 
visited Paris where so many masterpieces of art were then 
collected, and after a few months proceeded to Rome, to 
study the. great masters. In 1811, he resumed his resi- 
: dence in London, aud produced his first historical picture, 
the Dead Man Revived, which was purchased by the 
Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. Several others of 
his finest paintings he likewise executed during his sojourn 
in Europe, which extended to 1818. Nor was his pencil 
alone busy; in 1813 he published a small volume enti¬ 
tled, The Sylphs of the Seaso?is, and other Poems, 
which was republished in this country, and gave him a 
high rank among the poets of America. About the year 
1830, he began the preparation of a course of lectures 
on art to be delivered before a select audience in Boston; 
but four only were completed, and these did not appear 
until after his death. They show the vigorous grasp, 
the intense love, the keen perception which we should 
naturally look for from such a master. In 1841, he 
published Monaldi, an Italian story of jealousy, murder, 
39* 



4G2 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


and madness, much praised for its conception and lan¬ 
guage. 

In the latter part of his life, he was chiefly engaged on 
his great unfinished painting of Belshazzar’s Feast, though 
enfeebled by ill health and advancing years. Amidst days 
passed in the exercise of his beautiful art, and evenings 
occupied with literary recreations, or in delighting by his 
conversations and singular amenity of manners a circle of 
chosen friends, or of younger artists who visited him as a 
master, his life was closed by a sudden but gentle death in 
1843, in the sixty-fourth year of his age. 


America to Great Britain. 

All hail! thou noble land, 

Our Father’s native soil! 

O, stretch thy mighty hand, 

Gigantic grown by toil, 

O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore ! 

For thou with magic might 
Canst reach to where the light 
Of Phoebus travels bright 
The world o’er ! 

The genius of our clime, 

From his pine-embattled steep, 

Shall hail the guest sublime ; 

While the Tritons of the deep 
With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. 
Then let the world combine,— 

O’er the main our naval line 
Like the milky way shall shine 
Bright in fame ! 

Though ages long have past 
Since our Fathers left their home, 

Their pilot in the blast, 

O’er untravelled seas to roam, 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


4G3 


^ et lives the blood of England in our veins ! 
And shall we not proclaim 
That blood of honest fame, 

Which no tyranny can tame 
By its chains ? 

While the language free and bold 
Which the Bard of Avon suns:, 

In which our Milton told 

How the vault of heaven rung, 
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host:— 
While this, with reverence meet, 

Ten thousand echoes greet, 

From rock to rock repeat 
Bound our coast;— 

While the manners, while the arts, 
That mould a nation’s soul, 

Still cling around our hearts,— 
Between let Ocean roll, 

Our joint communion breaking with the sun : 
Yet still from either beach 
The voice of blood shall reach, 1 
More audible than speech, 

“ We arc one.”* 


JOHN ENGLAND, 1780-1812. 

John England, Bishop of Charleston, a man of tran¬ 
scendent and varied ability, was born in Cork, Ireland, in 
It86. He received all the advantages that the schools of 
his native city afforded until he reached his fifteenth year; 
and, having consecrated himself to the service of the 
sanctuary, completed his education at the theological col¬ 
lege of Carlow. Among his early ministerial functions 
are mentioned his appointment as lecturer at the Cathedral 
of Cork, and his superintendence, in 1809, of a monthly 


* The poet alludes merely to the moral union of the two countries. 







464 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


periodical, The Religious, Repertory , which he originated 
with the object of supplanting, by a more healthy literary 
nutriment, the corrupt literature current among the people, 
lie was also active in various charitable works, and inde¬ 
fatigable in his attendance on the victims of pestilence and 
the inmates of prisons. In 1812, he took a conspicuous 
part, as a political writer, in the discussion of the subject 
of Catholic emancipation. In 1817, he was appointed 
parish priest of Bandon, where he remained until made 
by the Pope bishop of the newly-established see of Charles¬ 
ton, embracing the two Carolinas and Georgia. He was 
consecrated in Ireland, but refused to take the oath of 
allegiance to the British government customary on such 
occasions, declaring his intentions to become naturalized 
in the United States. He arrived in Charleston December 
31st, 1820. One of his first acts was the establishment of 
a theological seminary, to which a classical and scientific 
academy was attached. Corresponding exertions in behalf 
of Protestants in the matter of education, acquired for the 
bishop the honorable title of Restorer of classical learning 
in Charleston. 

He also rallied about him the chivalry of South Carolina, 
in the formation of an Anti-duelling Society, of which Gen. 
Thos. Pinckney of revolutionary fame was the venerable 
president; and found time amidst his various occupations 
to establish the United States Catholic Miscellany, and 
supply its columns with a vast amount of original matter. 

He was so active in the discharge of his duties and in 
his ordinary movements, that on his visits to Rome, four 
of which occurred during his episcopate, he was called by 
the Cardinals il vescovo a vapore. It was on his return 
from the last of these journeys that, in consequence of his 
exertions as priest and physician among the steerage pas¬ 
sengers of the ship in which he sailed, he contracted a 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


405 


disease which impaired his health, and terminated fatally 
in 1842. • 

The collected works of Bishop England bear testimony 
to his literary industry as well as ability. They extend 
to five large octavo volumes of five hundred pages each, 
closely printed in double column. They treat principally 
of controversial and historical matters. Among the spirited 
addresses printed in these volumes, we may point particu¬ 
larly to those On Classical Education, On the Pleasures 
of the Scholars, On the Origin and History of the Duel, 
On the Character of Washington. All his writings, 
marked as they are by force and elegance of style, give 
but a faint idea of that stirring eloquence, interspersed 
with genuine Celtic wit, which seenfed ever ready to come 
forth, and was sure to bring together crowds of admiring 
hearers. 

The Duellist’s Honor. 

Honor is the acquisition and preservation of the dignity of our 
nature: that dignity consists in its perfection ; that perfection 
is found in observing the laws of our Creator; the laws of the 
Creator are the dictates of reason and of religion: that is, the 
observance of what He teaches us by the natural light of our 
own minds, and by the special revelations of His will manifestly 
given. They both concur in teaching us that individuals have 
not the dominion of their own lives. 

Man, then, has not power over his own life; much less is he 
justified in depriving another human being of life. Upon what 
ground can he who engages in a duel, through the fear of igno¬ 
miny, lay claim to courage? Unfortunate delinquent! Do you 
not see by how many links your victim was bound to a multitude 
of others? Does his vain and idle resignation of his title to life 
absolve you from the enormous claims which society has upon 
you for his services,—his family for that support, of which you 
have robbed them, without your own enrichment? Go, stand 
over that body ; call back that soul-which you have driven from 
its tenement; take up that hand which your pride refused to 


* 





4GG 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


touch, not one hour ago. You have, in your pride and wrath, 
usurped- one prerogative of God—you have inflicted death. At 
least, in mercy, attempt the exercise of another ; breathe into 
those distended nostrils,—let your brother be once more a living 
soul! Merciful Father! how powerless are we for good, but 
how mighty for evil! Wretched man ! he does not answer,—he 
cannot rise. All your efforts to make him breathe are vain. 
His soul is already in the presence of your common Creator. 
Like the wretched Cain, will you answer, “Am I my brother’s 
keeper?” Why do you turn away from the contemplation of 
your own honorable work ? Yes, go far as you will, still the 
admonition will ring in your ears: It was by your hand he fell! 
The horrid instrument of death is still in that hand, and the 
stain of blood upon your soul. Fly, if you will,—go to that 
house which you have filled with desolation. It is the shriek of 
his widow,—they are the cries of his children,—the broken sobs 
of his parent;—and, amidst the wailings, you distinctly hear the 
voice of imprecation on your own guilty head! Will your hon¬ 
orable feelings be content with this? Have you now had abun¬ 
dant and gentlemanly satisfaction ? 

DANIEL WEBSTER, 1782-1852. 

Daniel Webster, the most distinguished of American 
statesmen and orators, was born in the town of Salisbury, 
New Hampshire, in 1782. The future orator received his 
first education from his mother, and after a short academical 
training entered Dartmouth College in 1797. Here he 
overcame by his diligence the disadvantages of his hasty 
preparation, and took his degree with good reputation as 
a scholar in 1801. Upon leaving college, he immediately 
commenced his legal studies, and was admitted to the 
Suffolk bar in 1805. He removed to Portsmouth, New 
Hampshire, in 1807, where he resided nine years. In 
1813, he was elected to Congress, and at once took his 
place with the solid and eloquent men of the House. In 
December, 1820, he delivered his Plymouth oration on the 



THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


467 


first settlement of New England. The first Banker Hill 
speech was delivered June 17, 1825, when the corner stone 
of the monument was laid; the second exactly eighteen 
years afterwards, on its completion. His discourse in 
commemoration of Jefferson and Adams was pronounced 
at Faneuil Hall, in 1826. In 1827, he was elected to the 
Senate of the United States, in which he continued for 
twelve years, during the administration of Jackson and 
"V an Buren, and to which he was returned again in 1845. 
His celebrated oratorical passage with Hayne of South 
Carolina occurred in 1830, in reply to an attack upon New 
England, and in assertion of the nullification doctrine. 
The contest embodied the antagonism for the time between 
the North and the South. Hayne, rich in elocution and 
energetic in bearing, was met by the cool argument and 
clear statement of Webster rising to his grand peroration, 
which still furnishes a national watchword of union. 
Under the administration of Harrison, in 1841, Webster 
was appointed Secretary of State, and again under Filmore 
in 1850. He should have had the Whig nomination to the 
presidency, but the availability of General Scott interposed. 
When he was called upon in the night, at Washington, by 
a crowd of citizens, to receive the news of Scott’s nomina¬ 
tion for the presidency, he addressed them in the following 
beautiful strain: “ Gentlemen, this is a serene and beau¬ 
tiful night. Ten thousand thousands of the lights of 
heaven illuminate the firmament. They rule the night. 
A few hours hence this glory will be extinguished. 

“ You, meaner beauties of the night, 

Which poorly satisfy our eyes, 

What are you when the sun doth rise?” 

Gentlemen: there is not one among you who will sleep 
better to-night than I shall. If I wake, I shall learn the 



468 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


hour from the constellations, and I shall rise in the morn¬ 
ing, God willing, with the lark; and though the lark is 
a better songster than I, yet he will not leave the dew 
and the daisies, and spring upward to greet the purpling 
east, with a more blithe and jocund spirit than I shall 
possess.” 

In May, 1852, he made his last great speech in Faneuil 
Hall to the men of Boston. His death, which occurred in 
October of the same year, excited profound sorrow 
throughout the country. A numerous procession, including 
delegates from various public bodies of several States, fol¬ 
lowed his remains to the tomb built for his family and 
himself. A marble block, since placed in front of the tomb, 
bears the inscription: ‘ Lord, I believe, help thou my 
unbelief.’ 

Webster’s career as a senator and Secretary of State 
was no less illustrious than his professional triumphs: but, 
as far as literature is concerned, he will be remembered for 
his state-papers and speeches. We extract from Brown- 
son’s Review the following appreciation written in 1852 : 
“AVe see in every page, every sentence of his [Webster’s] 
writings, vast intellectual pQwer, quick sensibility, deep 
and tender affection, and a rich and fervid imagination; 
but we see also the hard student, the traces of long and 
painful discipline, under the tutelage of the most eminent 
ancient and modern masters. . . . He appears always 
greater than his subject, always to have the full mastery 
over it, and never to be mastered or carried away by it. . . 
His elocution and diction harmonize admirably with his 
person and voice, and both strike you at once as fitted to 
each other. His majestic person, his strong, athletic frame, 
and his deep, rich, sonorous voice, set off with double effect 
his massive thoughts, his weighty sentences, his chaste, 
dignified, and harmonious periods.” 





TIIE TRESENT CENTURY. 


460 


r lhe country is indebted to Mr. George Ticknor Curtis 
for an excellent biography of Daniel Webster, in which 
the statesman, the orator, and the private man, are faith¬ 
fully portrayed. 


To tiie Survivors op the Battle of Bunker Hill. 

From the First Bunker Hill Speech. 

Venerable men! you have come down to us from a former 
generation. Heaven lias bounteously lengthened out your lives 
that you might behold this joyous day„ You are now where you 
stood fifty years ago, this very hour, with your brothers and your 
neighbors, shoulder to shoulder, in the strife of your country ! 
Behold how altered ! The same heavens are indeed over your 
heads ; the same ocean rolls at your feet; but all else, how 
changed! You hear now no roar of hostile cannon, you see no 
mixed volumes of smoke and flame rising from burning Charles¬ 
town. The ground strewed with the dead and the dying ; the 
impetuous charge; the steady and successful repulse; the loud 
call to repeated assault; the summoning of all that is manly to 
repeated resistance; a thousand bosoms freely and fearlessly bared 
in an instant to whatever of terror there may be in war and 
death ;—all these you have witnessed, but you witness them no 
more. All is peace. The heights of yonder metropolis, its towers 
and roofs, which you then saw filled with wivos and children and 
countrymen in distress and terror, and looking with unutterable 
emotions for the issue of the combat, have presented you to-day 
with the sight of its whole happy population, come out to wel¬ 
come and greet you with a universal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, 
by a felicity of position appropriately lying at the foot of this 
mount, and seeming fondly to cling around it, are not means of 
annoyance to you, but your country's own means of distinction 
and defence. All is peace; and God has granted you this sight 
of your country's happiness, ere you slumber in the grave forever. 
He has allowed you to behold and to partake the reward of your 
patriotic toils; and he has allowed us, your sons and country¬ 
men, to meet you here, and in the name of the present generation, 
in the name of your country, in the name of liberty, to thank you ! 
40 


470 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


But, alas ! you are not all here! Time and the sword have 
thinned your ranks. Prescott, Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Bead, 
Pomeroy, Bridge 1 our eyes seek for you in vain amidst this 
broken band. You are gathered to your fathers, and live only to 
your country in her grateful remembrance and your own bright 
example. But let us not too much grieve that you have met the 
common fate of men. You lived at least long enough to know 
that your work had been nobly and successfully accomplished. 
You lived to see your country’s independence established, and to 
sheathe your swords from war. On the light of liberty you saw 
arise the light of peace, like 

‘ another morn, 

Bisen on mid-noon ; ’ 

and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloudless. 

But—ah !—him ! the first great martyr in this great cause ! 
him I the premature victim of his own self-devoting heart! 
him ! the head of our civil councils, and the destined leader 
of our military bands ; whom nothing brought hither but the 
unquenchable fire of his own spirit; him ! cut off by Providence 
in the hour of overwhelming anxiety and thick gloom ; falling 
ere he saw the star of his country rise ; pouring out his generous 
blood like water, before he knew whether it would fertilize a land 
of freedom or of bondage ! how shall I struggle with the emotions 
that stifle the utterance of thy name ! Our poor work may perish : 
but thine shall endure ! This monument may moulder away ; 
the solid ground it rests upon may sink down to a level with the 
sea; but thy memory shall not fail 1 Wheresoever among men a 
heart shall be found that beats to the transports of patriotism and 
liberty, its aspirations shall be to claim kindred with thy spirit! 

Veterans ! yon are the remnant of many a well-fought field. 
You bring with you marks of honor from Trenton and Monmouth, 
from Yorktown, Camden, Bennington, and Saratoga. Veterans 
of half a century ! when in your youthful days you put every¬ 
thing at hazard in your country’s cause, good as that cause was, 
and sanguine as youth is, still your fondest hopes did not stretch 
onward to an hour like this ! At a period to which you could 
not reasonably have expected to arrive; at a moment of national 
prosperity, such as you could never have foreseen, you are now 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


471 

met here to enjoy the fellowship of old soldiers, and to receive 
the overflowings of a universal gratitude. 

But your agitated countenances and your heaving breasts inform 
me that even this is not an unmixed joy. I perceive that a tumult 
of feelings rushes upon you. The images of the dead, as well as 
the persons of the living, throng to your embraces. The scene 
overwhelms you, and I turn from it. May the Father of all 
mercies smile upon your declining years and bless them ! And 
when you shall here have exchanged your embraces ; when you 
shall once more have pressed the hands which have been so often 
extended to give succor in adversity, or grasped in the exultation 
of victory ; then look abroad into this lovely land, which your 
young valor defended, and mark the happiness with which it is 
filled ; yea, look abroad into the whole earth, and see what a name 
you have contributed to give to your country, and what a praise 
you have added to freedom, and then rejoice in the sympathy 
and gratitude which beam upon your last days from the improved 
condition of mankind. 


JAMES FENIMORE COOPER, 1789-1851. 

James Fenimore Cooper, the most national of our 
novelists, was born at Burlington, New Jersey, in 1789. 
His boyhood was passed in the neighborhood of Otsego 
Lake, New York, at a frontier homestead surrounded by 
noble scenery, and a population composed of adventurous 
settlers, and the remnant of the Indian tribes that were 
once sole lords of the domain. At thirteen he entered 
Yale College, where he remained three years. Having 
obtained a midshipman’s commission, he spent the following 
six years in the service of the navy, and was thus early 
familiarized with the two great fields of his future literary 
career. His first production, entitled Precaution , made 
comparatively but little impression. In 1821, he published 
The Spy, a tale of the neutral ground, a region familiar 
to him by his residence within its borders. It was fol¬ 
lowed two years later by The Pioneers or the Sources of 




472 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


the Susquehanna. In this also the author drew on the 
early recollections of his life. The Pilot , the first of the 
sea-novels, next appeared. Lionel Lincoln was a second 
attempt in the Revolutionary field of The Spy, but not so 
successful. Then came in succession The Last of the 
Mohicans, The Prairie, The Pathfinder, The Deer Slayer, 
etc., all picturing with spirit and originality scenes of the 
forest and prairie, and incidents of Indian warfare and 
border life. The Red River, The Water Witch, The Two 
Admirals, Wing and Wing, etc., together with The Pilot, 
have placed him at the head of nautical novelists, where he 
still stands perhaps without a rival. He represents the 
American mind in its adventurous character. He paints 
the movements of a ship at sea, as if she were indeed a 
thing of life. He follows an Indian trail with the sagacity 
of a forest-king. His scenes and characters are indelibly 
engraven on the memory. His best creations are instinct 
with nature and truth. 

Besides his novels, Cooper is the author of A History 
of the Navy of the United States, Gleanings in Europe, 
Sketches of Switzerland, and several smaller works, which 
have run through many editions. 

He was of a manly, resolute nature; exact in all his 
business relations; but generous and noble in the manage¬ 
ment of his means. 

He had in press a historical work on the towns of Man¬ 
hattan, when he died of dropsy at his country estate at 
Cooperstown, in 1851, on the eve of his sixty-second 
birthday. 


Escape from a Panther. 

Elizabeth Temple and Louisa had gained the summit of the 
mountain, where they left the highway, and pursued their course, 
under the shade of the stately trees that crowned the eminence. 




THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


473 

The day was becoming warm; and the girls plunged more deeply 
into the forest, as they found its invigorating coolness agreeably 
contrasted to the excessive heat they had experienced in their 
ascent. The conversation, as if by mutual consent, was entirely 
changed to the little incidents and scenes of their walk ; and 
every tall pine, and every shrub or flower, called forth some 
simple expression of admiration. 

In this manner they proceeded along the margin of the preci¬ 
pice, catching occasional glimpses of the placid Otsego, or paus¬ 
ing to listen to the rattling of wheels and the sounds of hammers, 
that rose from the valley, to mingle the signs of men with the 
scenes of nature, when Elizabeth suddenly startled, and exclaimed 
—“ Listen ! there are the cries of a child on this mountain ! Is 
there a clearing near us? or can some little one have strayed from 
its parents ? ” 

“ Such things frequently happen,” returned Louisa. “ Let us 
follow the sounds. It may be a wanderer, starving on the hill.” 
Urged by this consideration, the females pursued the low mourn¬ 
ful sounds, that proceeded from the forest, with quick and impa¬ 
tient steps. More than once the ardent Elizabeth was on the 
point of announcing that she saw the sufferer, when Louisa 
caught her by the arm, and, pointing behind them, cried— 
“ Look at the dog I ” 

The advanced age of Brave had long before deprived him of his 
activity; and when his companions stopped to view the scenery, 
or to add to their bouquets, the mastiff would lay his huge frame 
on the ground, and await their movements, with his eyes closed, 
and a listlessness in his air that ill accorded with the character of 
a protector. But when, aroused by this cry from Louisa, Miss 
Temple turned, she saw the dog with his eyes keenly set on some 
distant object, his head bent near the ground, and his hair actu¬ 
ally rising on his bod} r , either through fright or anger. It was 
most probably the latter; for he was growling in a low key, and 
occasionally showing his teeth, in a manner that would have ter¬ 
rified his mistress, had she not so well known his good qualities. 

“Brave!” she said, “be quiet, Brave! what do j t ou see, 
fellow?” At the sounds of her voice, the rage of the mastiff, 
instead of being at all diminished, was very sensibly increased. 
He stalked in front of the ladies, and seated himself at the feet of 
40* 







474 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


liis mistress, growling louder than before, and occasionally giving 
vent to his ire by a short, surly harking. “ What does he see? ” 
said Elizabeth ; “ there must he some animal in sight.” 

Hearing no answer from her companion, Miss Temple turned 
her head, and beheld Louisa, standing with her face whitened to 
the color of death, and her finger pointing upward, with a sort of 
flickering, convulsed motion. The quick eye of Elizabeth glanced 
in the direction indicated by her friend, where she saw the fierce 
front and glaring eyes of a female panther, fixed on them in 
horrid malignity, and threatening instant destruction. “ Let us 
fly I ” exclaimed Elizabeth, grasping the arm of Louisa, whose 
form yielded like melting snow, and sunk lifeless to the earth. 

There was not a single feeling in the temperament of Elizabeth 
Temple, that could prompt her todesert a companion in such an 
extremity; and she fell on her knees, by the side of the inani¬ 
mate Louisa, tearing from the person of her friend, with an 
instinctive readiness, such parts of her dress as might obstruct 
respiration, and encouraging their only safeguard, the dog, at 
the same time, by the sounds of her voice. “ Courage, Brave! ” 
she cried—her own tones beginning to tremble—“ courage, cour¬ 
age, good Brave I ” 

A quarter-grown cub, that had hitherto been unseen, now 
appeared, dropping from the branches of a sappling, that grew 
under the shade of the beech which held its dam. This ignorant 
but vicious creature approached near to the dog, imitating the 
actions and sounds of its parent, but exhibiting a strange mixture 
of the playfulness of a kitten with the ferocity of its race. Stand¬ 
ing on its hind legs, it would rend the bark of a tree with its fore 
paws, and play all the antics of a cat, for a moment; and then, 
by lashing itself with its tail, growling and scratching the earth, 
it would attempt the manifestations of anger that rendered its 
parent so terrific. 

All this time Brave stood firm and undaunted, his short tail 
erect, his body drawn backward on its haunches, and his eyes 
following the movements of both dam and cub. At every gam¬ 
bol played by the latter, it approached nigher to the dog, the 
growling of the three becoming more horrid at each moment, 
until the younger beast, overleaping its intended hound, fell 
directly before the mastiff. There was a moment of fearful cries 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


4?5 


and struggles; but they ended almost as soon as commenced, by 
the cub appearing in the air, hurled from the jaws of Brave, with 
a violence that sent it against a tree so forcibly as to render it 
completely senseless. 

Elizabeth witnessed the short struggle, and her blood was 
warming with the triumph of the dog, when she saw the form 
of the old panther in the air, springing twenty feet from the 
branch of the beech to the back of the mastiff. No words of ours 
can describe the fury of the conflict that followed. It was a con¬ 
fused struggle on the dried leaves, accompanied by loud and ter¬ 
rible cries, barks, and growls. Miss Temple continued, on her 
knees, bending over the form of Louisa, her e}*es fixed on the 
animals, with an interest so horrid, and yet so intense, that she 
almost forgot her own stake in the result. 

So rapid and vigorous were the bounds of the inhabitant of the 
forest, that its active frame seemed constantly in the air, while 
the dog nobly faced his foe at each successive leap. When the 
panther lighted on the shoulders of the mastiff, which was its 
constant aim, old Brave, though torn with her talons, and stained 
with his own blood, that already flowed from a dozen wounds, 
would shake off his furious foe like a feather, and, rearing on his 
hind legs, rush to the fray again, with his jaws distended, and a 
dauntless eye. 

But age, and his pampered life, greatly disqualified the noble 
mastiff for such a struggle. In every thing but courage he was 
only the vestige of what he had once been. A higher bound 
than ever raised the wary and furious beast far beyond the reach 
of the dog—who was making a desperate, but fruitless dash at 
her—from which she alighted, in a favorable position, on the 
back of her aged foe. For a single moment only, could the 
panther remain there, the great strength of the dog returning 
with a convulsive effort. 

But Elizabeth saw, as Brave fastened his teeth in the side of 
his enemy, that the collar of brass around his neck, which had 
been glittering throughout the fray, was of the color of blood, 
and, directly, that his frame was sinking to the earth, where it 
soon lay, prostrate and helpless. Several mighty efforts of the 
wild-cat to extricate herself from the jaws of the dog followed ; 
but they were fruitless, until the mastiff turned on his back, his 






4TG 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


lips collapsed, and liis teeth loosened; when the short convul¬ 
sions and stillness that succeeded, announced the death of poor 
Brave. 

Elizabeth now lay wholly at the mercy of the beast. There is 
said to be something in the front of the image of the Maker, that 
daunts the hearts of the inferior beings of his creation; and it 
would seem that some such power, in the present instance, sus¬ 
pended the threatened blow. The eyes of the monster and the 
kneeling maiden met, for an instant, when the former stooped to 
examine her fallen foe; next to scent her luckless cub. From 
the latter examination it turned, however, with its eyes appa¬ 
rently emitting flashes of fire, its tail lashing its sides furiously, 
and its claws projecting for inches from its broad feet. 

Miss Temple did not, or could not move. Her hands were 
clasped in the attitude of prayer; but her eyes were still drawn 
to her terrible enemy ; her cheeks were blanched to the whiteness 
of marble, and her lips were slightly separated with horror. The 
moment seemed now to have arrived for the fatal termination ; 
and the beautiful figure of Elizabeth was bowing meekly to the 
stroke, when a rustling of leaves from behind seemed rather to 
mock the organs than to meet her ears. 

“Hist! hist!” said a low voice; “stoop lower, gall; your 
bun net hides the creater’s head.” It was rather the yielding of 
nature than a compliance with this unexpected order that caused 
the head of our heroine to sink on her bosom; when she heard 
the report of the rifle, the whizzing of the bullet, and the enraged 
cries of the beast, who was rolling over on the earth, biting its 
own flesh, and tearing the twigs and branches within its reach. 
At the next instant the form of the Leather-stocking rushed by 
her; and he called aloud—“ Come in, Hector; come in, you old 
fool; ’tis a hard-lived animal, and may jump ag’in.” 

Natty maintained his position in front of the maidens most 
fearlessly, notwithstanding the violent bounds and threatening 
aspect of the wounded panther, which gave several indications of 
returning strength and ferocity, until his rifle was again loaded, 
when he stepped up to the enraged animal, and, placing the 
muzzle close to its head, every spark of Jife was extinguished by 
the discharge. 


TIIE PRESENT CENTURY. 


477 


LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY, 1791-1865. 

Lydia Huntley Sigourney was born at Norwich, Con¬ 
necticut, in 1791. Her father was a man of worth and 
benevolence, and her mother possessed those well-balanced 
unobtrusive virtues of character which marked the lady of 
the olden time. 

In her earlier years, Miss Huntley gave evidences of 
uncommon abilities ; and, after receiving the best advan¬ 
tages of education, she put in execution a plan which 
she had long contemplated of engaging in the work of 
instruction. In 1814, she was induced to commence a 
select school at Hartford. In 1815, she gave to the public 
her first productions under the modest title of Moral 
Pieces in Prose and Verse. The volume was. well re¬ 
ceived, and led to the author’s engagement as a contributor 
to various periodicals. 

In 1819, she married Charles Sigourney, a thoroughly 
educated and accomplished merchant of Hartford. Her 
subsequent career was to be that of an author. The true 
interests of her own sex, and the good of the rising gen¬ 
eration, led her to compose such works as Letters to my 
Pupils, Letters to Young Ladies, Letters to Mothers, 
Child's Booh, GirVs Booh , Boy's Booh, How to he Happy, 
and many other popular juvenile works. In 1836, appeared 
her Zinzendorf and other Poems; and, in 1841, Poca¬ 
hontas and other Poems. These productions display a 
warm sympathy with missionary effort, and with philan¬ 
thropic labor of every description. A critic in the North 
American Review, pays the following tribute to her poetic 
talent: “ The excellence of all her poems is quiet and 

unassuming. They are full of the sweet images and bright 
associations of domestic life—its unobtrusive happiness, its 
unchanging affections, and its cares and sorrows; of the 







478 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


feelings, naturally inspired by life’s vicissitudes, from the 
cradle to the deathbed ; of the hopes that burn, like the 
unquenched altar fire, in that chosen dwelling place of 
virtue and religion.” Her prose writings are noways 
inferior in merit to her poetry, and even promise longer 
endurance. 

Mrs. Sigourney has been one of the most voluminous of 
American female writers, having published from forty to 
fifty different volumes. She died in her seventy-fourth year, 
at her residence in Hartford, in 1865, after an amiable life 
and cheerful old age, illuminated by deeds of kindness and 
charity. 


Sketch of a Family. 

“ I have lost my whole fortune,” said a merchant, as he re¬ 
turned one evening to his home; we can no longer keep our 
carriage. We must leave this large house. The children can no 
longer go to expensive schools. Yesterday I was a rich man ; 
to-day there is nothing I can call my own.” 

“ Dear husband,” said the wife, “ we are still rich in each other 
and our children. Money may pass away, but God has given us 
a better treasure in these active hands and loving hearts.” 

“ Dear father,” said the children, “ do not look so sober. W T e 
will help you to get a living.” 

“What can you do, poor things? ” said he. 

“ You shall see! you shall see! ” answered several voices. “ It 
is a pity if we have been to school for nothing. How can the 
father of eight children be poor ? We shall work and make you 
rich again.” 

“I shall help,” said a little girl, hardly four years old. “I 
shall not have any new things bought, and I shall sell my great 
doll.” 

The heart of the husband and father, which had sunk within 
his bosom like a stone, was lifted up. The sweet enthusiasm of 
the scene cheered him, and his nightly prayer was like a song of 
praise. 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


479 


They left their stately house. The servants were dismissed. 
Pictures and plate, rich carpets and furniture, were sold, and she 
who had been mistress of the mansion shed no tears. 

“Pay every debt,” said she; “let no one suffer through us, 
and we may be happy.” 

lie rented a neat cottage and a small piece of ground a few 
miles from the city. "With the aid of his sons he cultivated veg¬ 
etables for the market. lie viewed with delight and astonish¬ 
ment the economy of his wife, nurtured as she had been in 
wealth, and the efficiency which his daughters soon acquired 
under her training. The eldest assisted in the household, and 
also instructed the young children; besides, they executed 
various works which they had learned as accomplishments, but 
which they found could be disposed of to advantage. They 
embroidered with taste some of the ornamental parts of female 
apparel, which were readily sold to a merchant in the city. They 
cultivated flowers, and sent bouquets to market in the cart that 
conveyed the vegetables; they plaited’straw, they painted maps, 
they executed plain needle-work Everyone was at her post, 
busy and cheerful. The little cottage was like a beehive. 

“ I never enjoyed such health before,” said the father. 

“ And I never was so happy before,” said the mother. 

“We never knew how manydhings we could do, when we lived 
in the grand house,” said the children ; “ and we love each other 
a great deal better here. You call us your little bees.” 

“Yes,” said the father; “ and you make just such honey as 
the heart takes to feed on.” 

Economy, as well as industry, was strictly observed; nothing 
•was wasted. Nothing unnecessary was purchased. The eldest 
daughter became assistant teacher in a distinguished seminary, 
and the second took her place as instructress to the family. The 
dwelling, which had always been kept neat, they were soon able 
to beautify. Its construction was improved, and the vines and 
flowering trees were replanted around it. The merchant was 
happier under his woodbine-covered porch in a summer's even¬ 
ing, than he had been in his showy dressing-room. 

“ We are now thriving and prosperous,” said he; “shall we 
return to the city ? ” 

“ Oh, no ! ” was the unanimous reply. 




480 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


“ Let us remain,” said the wife, “ where we have found health 
and contentment.” 

“Father,” said the youngest, “all we children hope you are 
not going to be rich again ; for then,” she added, “ we little ones 
were shut up in the nursery, and did not see much of you or 
mother. Now we all live together, and sister, who loves us, 
teaches us, and we learn to be industrious and useful. We were 
none of us happy, when we were rich and did not work. So, 
father, please not to be rich any more.” 


WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT, 1796-1859. 




William H. Prescott, the most eminent of our histoians, 
was born in Salem, Massachusetts, in 1796. He received 
his literary training chiefly in Boston and in Cambridge 
where he was graduated in 1814. His original intention 
was to devote himself to the profession of the law, in the 
practice of which his father had risen to distinction; but an 
accident at college, caused by a crust of bread thrown at 
random, deprived him of the use of one eye, and greatly 
enfeebled the other. In order to procure some alleviation 
for his misfortune, he spent two years in travelling in 
England and on the continent, consulting the best oculists ; 
but obtained no relief. Finding that he could not enter 
upon a professional life, he applied his mind for ten years 
to a course of literary studies with a view to fit himself for 
the office of historian. He chose for the subject of his first 
work, The Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. It was a 
noble subject, embracing the final overthrow of Moslem 
power in Western Europe, and the discovery of America, 
and was interesting alike to both hemispheres. It appeared 
in 1838, and has been translated into German, Italian, 
French, and Spanish. 

He next gave to the world his Conquest of Mexico , 
published in 1843; and in 1847, his Conquest of Peru. 





THE PRESENTCENTURY. 


481 


Both of these works were composed largely from manu¬ 
script materials obtained in Spain. Both are written in 
Prescott’s most attractive and brilliant style. • 

“ The scenic descriptions and portraits of the Spanish 
leaders, and of Montezuma and Guatimozin, in the former 
work, give it all the charm of an effective romance.”* 

His last work, the History of the Reign of Philip the 
Second, he did not live to complete. The three published 
volumes comprise about fifteen years of Philip’s reign, 
including in the narrative the battle of Lepanto. 

As the reign of Charles Y. is the intermediate link 
between those of Ferdinand and Isabella and of Philip 
II., Prescott had also given in 1856 an edition of Rob¬ 
ertson’s Charles Y. with a supplement — The Life of 
Charles V. after his Abdication. A portion of Pres¬ 
cott’s minor writings, chiefly contributions to the North 
American Review, were collected by him in one volume 
under the title of Biographical and Critical Miscel¬ 
lanies. 

Prescott’s great merits as a historian have been recog¬ 
nized and extolled abroad as at home. We quote the 
testimony given by Alison in 1859: “ Mr. Prescott was by 
far the first historian of America, and he may justly be 
assigned a place beside the very greatest of modern 
Europe. To the indispensable requisites of such an author 
—industry, candor, and impartiality—he united ornamental 
qualities of the highest grade; a mind stored with various 
and elegant learning, a poetical temperament, and great, 
it may almost be said, unrivalled, pictorial powers.” We 
cannot admit in full the praise of impartiality here bestowed 
on the great historian. Indeed, religious prejudice not 
unfrequently mars the beauty of his Histories, and leads 


41 


♦Shaw’s Outlines. 





482 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


liim (unwittingly, we like to think) into manifest injustice 
to persons and things Catholic.* 

The character of Prescott was of singular worth. With 
a profound modesty he united a remarkable self-denial, 
and lofty perseverance in duty. Possessed of means which 
placed him above the necessity of labor, he devoted his 
life to one of the most onerous departments of literary 
research. 

He was suddenly stricken down by paralysis in 1859, 
and died at his home in Boston, two hours after his attack. 


Description of the Yalley of Mexico. 


The Spaniards had not advanced far, when, turning an angle 
of the Sierra, they suddenly came on a view which more than 
compensated the toils of the preceding day. It was that of the 
Yalley of Mexico, or Tenochtitlan, as more commonly called by 
the natives; which, with its picturesque assemblage of water, 
woodland, and cultivated plains, its shining cities and shadowy 
hills, was spread out like some gay and gorgeous panorama before 
them. In the highly rarefied atmosphere of these upper regions, 
even remote objects have a brilliancy of coloring and a distinct¬ 
ness of outline which seem to annihilate distance. Stretching far 
away at their feet, were seen noble forests of oak, sycamore, and 
cedar, and beyond, yellow fields of maize and the towering 
maguey, intermingled with orchards and blooming gardens ; for 
flowers, in such demand for their religious festivals, were even 
more abundant in this populous valley than in other parts of 
Anahuac. In the centre of the great basin were beheld the 
lakes, occupying then a much larger portion of its surface than 
at present; their borders thickly studded with towns and hamlets, 
and, in the midst,—like some Indian princess with her coral of 
pearls,—the fair city of Mexico, with her white towers and pyra¬ 
midal temples, reposing, as it were, on the bosom of the waters,— 
the far-famed ‘Yenice of the Aztecs.’ High over all rose the 
royal hill of Chapoltepec, the residence of the Mexican monarchs, 






See, in Archbishop Spalding’s Miscellanea , Nos. XI., XII, and XIII. 








TIIE PRESENT CENTURY. 


483 


crowned.with the same grove of gigantic cypresses, which at this 
day fling their broad shadows over the land. In the distance 
be} T ond the blue waters of the lake, and nearly screened by inter¬ 
vening foliage, was seen a shining speck, the rival capital of 
Tezcuco, and, still further on, the dark belt of porphyry, girdling 
the Valley around, like a rich setting which Nature had devised 
for the fairest of her jewels. 

Such was the beautiful vision which broke on the eyes of the 
Conquerors. And even now, when so sad a change has come over 
the scene, when the stately forests have been laid low, and the 
soil, unsheltered from the fierce radiance of a tropical sun, is in 
many places abandoned to sterility; when the waters have 
retired, leaving a broad and ghastly margin white with the 
incrustation of salts, while the cities and hamlets on their borders 
have mouldered into ruins;—even now that desolation broods 
over the landscape, so indestructible are the lines of beauty which 
Nature has traced on its features, that no traveller, however cold, 
can gaze on them with any other emotions than those of aston¬ 
ishment and rapture. 

What, then, must have been the emotions of the Spaniards, 
when, after working their toilsome way into the upper air, the 
cloudy tabernacle parted before their eyes, and they beheld these 
fair scenes in all their pristine magnificence and beauty! It was 
like the spectacle which greeted the eyes of Moses from the 
summit of Pisgah, and, in the warm glow of their feelings, they 
cried out, “ It is the promised land! ” 

WASHINGTON IRVING, 1783-1859. 

Washington Irving, the Goldsmith of America, was born 
in the city of New York, in 1783. He enjoyed but an 
ordinary school education, and at the age of sixteen com¬ 
menced the study of law. In 1804, led by some symptoms 
of ill health, he visited the South of Europe. Whilst at 
Rome, he became acquainted with Washington Allston, 
and even meditated for a time the profession of painter, 
for which he had naturally a taste. After an absence of 
two years he returned home; and, in conjunction with his 




4S4 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


brother, William Irving, and J. K. Paulding, published a 
semi monthly magazine, the since famous Salmagundi. In 
1809 was published his humorous History of New York 
by Diedrich Knickerbocker, the first part of which he had 
sketched in company with another brother of his. Dr. Peter 
Irving. Though one of the first fruits of Washington 
Irving’s inventive talent, The History of New York was 
not surpassed by any later efforts—successful as they were— 
of its accomplished author. In 1820 appeared The Sketch- 
Book, a series of short tales and essays, sentimental and 
humorous, which was received with great favor both in 
England and in this country. Bracebridge Hall or the 
Humorists, another series containing sketches of English 
rural life and holiday customs, was brought out in 1822. 
Two years after, followed the Tales of a Traveller; but 
this work was greatly inferior to its predecessors. 

Having gone to Spain in connection with the United 
States embassy, he studied the history and antiquities of 
that romantic country, and published in 1828 The Life 
and Voyages of Christopher Columbus, to which he 
afterwards added the Voyages of the Companions of 
Columbus. lie owed most of his materials to Navarrete’s 
researches, but he had the undivided merit of that ‘ lucid 
and attractive form which engages the interest of every 
reader.’ * We would remark that in one thing the biogra¬ 
pher of Columbus singularly failed, viz., in bringing home 
to the reader the spirit of faith which animated the breast 
of the great discoverer, which inspired him with the zeal 
to begin and the patience to prosecute his mighty design. 

During a tour to the south of Spain in 1829 and 1830, 
Irving procured the materials for his Conquest of Granada, 
and The Alhambra. The Conquest is vested with a rich- 


* Prescott. 



THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


485 


ness of style and brilliancy of coloring not expected in 
history, and yet not unsuited to the romantic character of 
the scenes described. There is, running through the work, 
a view of irony against priests and monks that cannot be 
explained otherwise than by a spirit of bigotry, which the 
author of 'The Conquest so heartily deplores in others. 
The Alhambra is well appreciated in one word by Prescott, 
when he styles it ‘the beautiful Spanish Sketch-Book.’ 
After an absence of seventeen years, Irving returned to 
America, where he was welcomed by his admiring country¬ 
men as one who had conferred imperishable honor upon 
the American name. His pen however did not remain 
idle. The following are the principal works that he wrote 
in the latter part of his life: Tour on the Prairies; 
Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey; Legends of the Con¬ 
quest of Spain; Astoria; The Adventures of Captain 
Bonneville; Life of Goldsmith ; Mahomet and his Suc¬ 
cessors, an intermixture of fact and legend; WolferVs 
Boost; and lastly the Life of Washington , completed after 
j the Psalmist’s limit of three score and ten, and when 
growing infirmities were gathering upon the writer. Having 
survived the summer after his last publication, he was 
suddenly called away in November, 1859. He died at his 
cottage of Sunnyside, on the banks of the Hudson. 

As a man, Washington Irving possessed a most genial 
disposition, which was sure to produce attachment and 
esteem. As an author, his merits have been duly appre¬ 
ciated by British readers and warmly acknowledged by 
British critics, whilst at home he is by unanimous consent 
the most popular of our authors. If, however, we were to 
limit ourselves to the merits of Irving as a historian or 
biographer, and compare him with the historian of Ferdi¬ 
nand and Isabella, the latter must bear .away the palm of 
superiority for extent and depth of research, for method 
41* 




4SG 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


and arrangement of materials, nay even for propriety and 
beauty of historical style. We conclude by the following 
just remarks of Chambers: “Modern authors have too 
much neglected the mere matter of style, but the success 
of Mr. Irving should convince the careless that the graces 
of composition, when employed even on paintings of do¬ 
mestic life and the quiet scenes of nature, can still charm 
as in the days of Addison, Goldsmith, and Mackenzie.” 


Portrait of Wouter Van Twiller. 

Prom Knickerbocker. 

The renowned Wouter (or Walter) Van Twiller was descended 
■from a long line of Dutch burgomasters, who had successively 
dozed away their lives, and grown fat upon the bench of magis¬ 
tracy in Rotterdam, and who had comported themselves with such 
singular wisdom and propriety that they were never either heard 
or talked of,—which, next to being universally applauded, should 
be the object of ambition of all magistrates and rulers. There are 
two opposite ways by which some men make a figure in the world: 
one by talking faster than they think ; and the other by holding 
their tongues and not thinking at all. By the first, many a smat- 
tercr acquires the reputation of a man of quick parts; by the 
other, m-any a dunderpate, like the owl, the stupidest of birds, 
comes to be considered the very type of wisdom. This, by-the- 
way, is a casual remark, which I would not for the universe have 
it thought I apply to Governor Van Twiller. It is true he was a 
man shut Up within himself, like an oyster, and rarely spoke 
except in monosyllables ; but then it was allowed he seldom said a 
foolish thing. So invincible was his gravity that he was never 
known to laugh, or even to smile, through the whole course of a 
long and prosperous life. Nay, if a joke were uttered in his 
presence that set light-minded hearers in a roar, it was observed to 
throw him into a state of perplexity. Sometimes he would deign 
to inquire into the matter ; and when, after much explanation, 
the joke was made ^as plain as a pikestaff, he would continue 
to smoke his pipe in silence, and at length, knocking out the 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 48*7 

ashes, would exclaim, u Well! I see nothing in all that to laugh 
about 1” . 

The person of this illustrious old gentleman was formed and 
proportioned as though it had been moulded by the hands of some 
cunning Dutch statuary, as a model of majesty and lordly grandeur, 
lie was exactly five feet six inches in height, and six feet five 
inches in circumference. His head was a perfect sphere, and of 
such stupendous dimensions, that dame Nature, with all her sex’s 
ingenuity, would have been puzzled to construct a neck capable 
of supporting it; wherefore she wisely declined the attempt, and 
settled it firmly on the back of his back-bone, just between the 
shoulders. His body was oblong, and particularly capacious at 
bottom ; which was wisely ordered by Providence, seeing that he 
was a man of sedentary habits, and very averse to the idle labor 
of walking, His legs were short, but sturdy in proportion to the 
weight they had to sustain ; so that when erect he had not a little 
the appearance of a beer-barrel on skids. His face—that infallible 
index of the mind—presented a vast expanse, unfurrowed by any 
of those lines and angles which disfigure the human countenance 
with what is termed expression. Two small gray eyes twinkled 
feebly in the midst, like two stars of lesser magnitude in a hazy 
firmament; and his full-fed cheeks, which seemed to have taken 
toll of everything that went into his mouth,-were curiously mot¬ 
tled and streaked with dusky red, like a spitzenberg apple. 

His habits were as regular as his person. He daily took his 
four stated meals, appropriating exactly an hour to each; he 
smoked and doubted eight hours, and he slept the remaining 
twelve of the four-and-twenty. Such was the renowned Wouter 
Yan Twiller,—a true philosopher; for his mind was either ele¬ 
vated above, or tranquilly settled below, the cares and perplexities 
of this world. He had lived in it for years, without feeling the 
least curiosity to know whether the- sun revolved round it, or it 
round the sun ; and he had watched, for at least half a century, 
the smoke curling from his pipe to the ceiling, without once 
troubling his head with any of those numerous theories by which 
a philosopher >vould have perplexed his brain, in accounting for 
its rising above the surrounding atmosphere. 




488 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


ROBERT WALSH, 1784-1859. 

Robert Walsh was born in Baltimore, in 1784, and 
received his classical education partly at St. Mary’s Col¬ 
lege of that city, and partly at Georgetown. He was 
then sent to Europe to complete his studies, and remained 
abroad until his twenty-fifth year. On his return to 
America, he commenced the practice'of the law, but soon 
turned his whole attention to the career of letters. 

His first productions were contributed to Dennie’s Port¬ 
folio. In 1809, he published A Letter on the Genius and 
Disposition of the French Government , in which he 
commented severely on the measures of Napoleon. The 
Letter suggested to Lord Jeffrey the following words : 
"We must all learn to love the Americans, if they send 
us many such pamphlets as the present.” Four editions 
in England are sufficient evidence of the favor obtained by 
the American work. In 1811, Walsh began The American 
Review of History and Politics, the first quarterly ever 
attempted in the ‘United States. Most of the articles 
issued during the two years’ existence of the Review, were 
from the pen of the editor. In 1813, he published his 
Correspondence with Robert Goodloe Harper respecting 
Russia , and Ah Essay on the Future State of Europe. 
Among the best efforts of his pen during the years that 
immediately followed, we must mention his elaborate biogra¬ 
phical paper on Benjamin Franklin, which still remains one 
of the most interesting memoirs of the American sage. In 
1819 came out his largest work, An Appeal from the Judg¬ 
ments of Great Britain respecting the United Stales. It 
was an able vindication of the Americans from .the slanders 
set forth by hasty, ignorant, and irresponsible travellers, 
and too implicitly endorsed by the British press, particu¬ 
larly the London Quarterly and the Edinburgh Review. 


THE TRESENT CENTURY. 


489 


In 1821, he started the National Gazette, and during 
his fifteen years’ connection with this journal, did much to 
improve the literary character of daily newspapers. In 
the meantime he wrote for several other periodicals, and 
revived his original Review, which he continued to edit 
for ten years with great success. In 1837, he published, 
under the title of Didactics, two volumes consisting of his 
select editorials and some unpublished papers. In the 
same year he removed to Paris, where he continued to 
reside until his death in 1859. 

Few Americans ever enjoyed more intimate connection 
than Robert Walsh with the learned men and politicians 
of Europe, or traced with greater interest the progress of 
government and science. His love of letters accompanied 
him to the end: for years his frail body had seemed to be 
kept alive by his active zestful intellect. An amiable trait 
in his character was “ his readiness to advance young men. 
No petty jealousy ever stoppod him from seeing and excit¬ 
ing talent in every form.” 


JAMES K. PAULDING, 1778-18GO. 

James Kirke Paulding, born in Dutchess County, New 
York, received at a village school the only education he 
ever acquired from the tuition of others, so that he may be 
fairly considered a self-made man. He remained at home 
until manhood, when he came to the city of New York. 
His sister had married William Irving, a merchant of high 
character and a brother to Washington Irving. The inti¬ 
macy which he contracted with the two brothers, resulted 
in the publication of Salmagundi, already noticed on a 
preceding page. In 1816, he gave to the public The 
Diverting History of John Bull and Brother Jonathan, 
in which England and the United States are represented 




490 AMERICAN LITERATURE. 

as private individuals, father and son, engaged in a domestic 
feud. He next published a poem entitled The Lay of the 
Scotch Fiddle, a free parody of The Lay of the Last Min¬ 
strel. It is clever as a parody and contains many passages 
of considerable beauty. In 1818 appeared his principal 
poetical production, The Backwoodsman , an American 
poem in sentiment, scenery, and incidents. In 1822, he 
prepared a satire on English travellers in the United 
States, John Bull in America. This was followed by the 
Traveller's Guide , a burlesque on the grandiloquence of 
the current Guide-Books. Paulding’s first novel, Konigs- 
mark, was written in 1823. The scene is laid among the 
early Swedish settlers on the Delaware. In 1826, he wrote 
Merry Tales Of the Three Wise Men of Gotham, a satire 
on Owen’s system of socialism, on phrenology, and on the 
legal maxim of Caveat emptor, each exemplified in a sep¬ 
arate story. The Dutchman's Fireside, the best of his 
novels, was published in 1831, and was succeeded by West¬ 
ward Ho ! the scene of which is principally laid in Ken¬ 
tucky. The last of his avowed publications are, The Old 
Continental, The Puritan and his Daughter, and some 
plays. In almost all the writings of Paulding there is 
occasionally infused a vein of humorous satire and keen 
sarcastic irony—and it is sometimes difficult for one not 
familiarized with his manner, to decide when he is jesting, 
and when he is in earnest. 

Paulding presided over the Navy department during 
almost the entire term of Van Buren’s administration, 
after which he retired to his pleasant country-residence on 
the east bank of the Hudson, in Dutchess county, where 
he died in 1860, retaining his mental'faculties to the last. 
The daily routine of Paulding’s life in the country, was 
described by himself in the following cheerful summary: 
“ I smoke a little, read a little, write a little, ruminate a 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


491 


little, grumble a little, and sleep a great deal. I was once 
great at pulling up weeds, to which I have a mortal antip¬ 
athy. . . . But my working days are almost over. I find 
that carrying seventy-five years on my shoulders is pretty 
nearly equal to the same number of pounds; and, instead 
of laboring myself, sit in the shade watching the labor of 
others, which I find quite sufficient exercise.” 

Memory and Hope. 

Hope is the leading-string of youth ; memory the staff of age. 
Yet, for a long time, they were at variance, and scarcely ever 
associated together. Memory was almost always grave, nay, sad 
and melancholy. She delighted in silence and repose, amid rocks 
and waterfalls ; and whenever she raised her eyes from the ground, 
it was only to look hack over her shoulder. 

Hope was a smiling, dancing, rosy hoy, .with sparkling eyes, 
and it was impossible to look upon him without being inspired 
by his gay and sprightly buoyancy. Wherever he went, he 
diffused gladness and joy around him ; the eyes of the young 
sparkled brighter than ever at his approach; old age, as it cast 
its dim glances at the blue vault of heaven, seemed inspired with 
new vigor; the flowers looked more gay, the grass more green, 
the birds sung more cheerily, and all nature seemed to sympathize 
in his gladness. Memory was of mortal birth, but Hope partook 
of immortality. 

One day they chanced to meet, and Memory reproached Hope 
with being a deceiver. She charged him with deluding mankind 
with visionary, impracticable schemes, and exciting expectations 
that led only to disappointment and regret; with being the ignis 
fatuus of youth, and the scourge of old age. But Hope cast back 
upon her the charge of deceit, and maintained that the pictures 
of the past were as much exaggerated by Memory, as were the 
anticipations of Hope. He declared that she looked at objects 
at a great distance in the past, he in the future, and that this 
distance magnified everything. “ Let us make the circuit of the 
world,” said he, “ and try the experiment.” Memory reluctantly 
‘consented, and they went their way together. 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


492 

The first person they met was a schoolboy, lounging lazily 
along, and stopping every moment to gaze around, as if unwilling 
to proceed on his way. By and by, he sat down and burst into 
tears. “ Whither so fast, my good lad ? ” asked Hope, jeeringly. 

“ I am going to school,” replied tho lad, “to study, when I would 
rather, a thousand times, be at play ; and sit on a bench with a 
book in my hand, while I long to be sporting in the fields. But 
never mind, I shall be a man soon, and then I shall be as free as 
the air.” Saying this, he skipped away merrily, in the hope of 
soon being a man. “ It is thus you play upon the inexperience 
of youth;” said Memory, reproachfully. 

Passing onward, they met a beautiful girl, pacing slowly and 
with a melancholy air, behind a party of gay young men and 
maidens. They were all gaily dressed in silks and ribbons ; but 
the little girl had on a simple frock, a homely apron, and clumsy, 
thick-soled shoes. “ Why do you not join yonder group,” asked 
Hope, “and partake in their gayety, my pretty little girl?” 

“ Alas I” replied she, “ they take no notice of me. They call me 
a child. But I shall soon be a woman, and then I shall be so 
happy!” Inspired by this hope, she quickened her pace, and 
soon was seen dancing along merrily with the rest. 

In this manner they wended their way, from nation to nation, 
and clime to clime, until they had made the circuit of the uni¬ 
verse. Wherever they came, they found the human race, who 
at this time were all young (it being not many years since the 
first creation of mankind), repining at the present, and looking 
forward to a riper age for happiness. All anticipated some future 
good, and Memory had scarce anything to do but cast looks of 
reproach at her young companion. “ Let us return home,” said 
she, “ to that delightful spot where I first drew my breath. I 
long to repose among its beautiful bowers ; to listen to the brooks 
that murmured a thousand times more musically ; to the birds 
that sung.a thousand times more sweetly ; and to the echoes that 
were softer than any I have since heard. Ah ! there is nothing 
on earth so enchanting as the scenes of my early youth !” Hope 
indulged himself in a sly, significant smile, and they proceeded 
on their return home. 

As they journeyed but slowly, many years elapsed ere they 
approached the spot from which they had departed. It so hap- 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


493 


pened, one day, that they met an old man, bending under the 
weight of years, and walking with trembling steps, leaning on 
his staff. Memory at once recognized him as the youth they had 
seen going to school, on their first onset in the tour of the world. 
As they came nearer, the old man reclined on his staff, and look¬ 
ing at Hope, who, being immortal, was still a blithe young boy, 
sighed, as if his heart was breaking. 

“ What aileth thee, old man?” asked the youth. “ What aileth 
me ?” he replied, in a feeble, faltering voice. “ What should ail 
me, but old age ? I have outlived my health and strength; I 
have survived all that was near and dear; I have seen all that I 
loved, or that loved me, struck down to the earth like dead leaves 
in autumn, and now I stand like an old tree, withering, alone in 
the world, without roots, without branches, and without verdure. 
I have only just enough of sensation to know that I am misera¬ 
ble ; and the recollection of the happiness of my youthful days, 
when, careless, and full of blissful anticipations, I was a laughing, 
merry boy, only adds to the miseries I now endure.” 

“ Behold,” said Memory, “the consequence of thy deceptions,” 
and she looked reproachfully at her companion. “ Behold 1” 
replied Hope, “ the deception practiced by thyself. Thou per- 
suadest him that he was happy in his youth. Dost thou remember 
the boy we met when we first set out together, who was weeping 
on his way to school, and sighed to be a man ?” Memory cast 
down her eyes, and was silent. 

A little way onward, they came to a miserable cottage, at the 
door of which was an aged woman, meanly clad, and shaking 
with palsy. She sat all alone, her head resting on her bosom, 
and, as the pair approached, vainly tried to raise it up to look at 
them. “ Good-morrow, old lady, and all happiness to you,” 
cried Hope, gayly; and the old woman thought it was a long 
time since she had heard such a cheering salutation. “ Happi¬ 
ness ! ” said she, in a voice that quivered with weakness and 
infirmity. “ Happiness ! I have not known it since I w^as a little 
girl, without care or sorrow. 

“Oh, I remember those delightful days, when I thought of 
nothing but the present moment, nor cared for the future or the 
past. When I laughed, and played, and sung, from morning till 
night,, and envied no one, and wished to be no other than I was. 
42 








494 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


But those happy times are passed, never to return. Oh, could I 
hut once more return to the days of my childhood! ” The old 
woman sunk back on her seat, and the tears flowed from her 
hollow eyes. Memory again reproached her companion, but he 
only asked her if she recollected the little girl they had met a 
long time ago, who was so miserable because she was so young ? 
Memory knew it well enough, and said not another word. 

They now approached their home, and Memory was on tiptoe, 
with the thought of once more enjoying the unequaled beauties 
of those scenes from which she had been so long separated. But, 
somehow or other, it seemed that they were sadly changed. 
Neither the grass was so green, the flowers so sweet and lovely, 
nor did the brooks murmur, the echoes answer, nor the birds sing 
half so enchantingly, as she remembered them in time past. 
“Alas ! ” she exclaimed, “ how changed is every thing ! I alone 
am the same.” “ Every thing is the same, and thou alone art 
changed,” answered Hope. “ Thou hast deceived thyself in the 
past, just as much as I deceive others in the future.” 

“ What are you disputing about?” asked an old man, whom 
they had not observed before, though he was standing close by 
them. “ I have lived almost fourscore and ten years, and my 
experience may, perhaps, enable me to decide between you.” 
They told him the occasion of their disagreement, and related 
the history of their journey round the earth. The old man 
smiled, and, for a few moments, sat buried in thought. He then 
said to them: “I, too, have lived to see all the hopes of my youth 
turn into shadows, clouds, and darkness, and vanish into nothing. 
I, too, have survived my fortune, my friends, my children ; the 
hilarity of youth, and the blessing of health.” “And dost thou 
not despair?” said Memory. “No: I have still one hope left 
me.” “And what is that? ” “ The hope of heaven! ” 

Memory turned toward Hope, threw herself into his arms, 
which opened to receive her, and, bursting into tears, exclaimed: 
“Forgive me, I have done thee injustice. Let us never again 
separate from each other.” “With all my heart,” said Hope, 
and they continued forever after to travel together, hand in hand, 
through the world. 


THE TRESENT CENTURY. 


495 


FITZ-GREENE HALLECK, 1795-18G7. 

Fitz-Greene Ilalleck, one of our best lyric poets, was 
born at Guilford, Connecticut, in 1795. When about 
eighteen years of age, he became clerk in one of the prin¬ 
cipal banking-houses of New York, and resided in that 
city, engaged in mercantile and kindred pursuits, until 
1849, when he returned to his native town, for the rest of 
his life. At an early age he wrote verses, but none that, 
in his maturer years, he deemed worthy of preservation. 
In New York, his first publication was that piece of exqui¬ 
site versification and refined sentiment, the Twilight , con¬ 
tributed to The Evening Post, in 1818. His other best 
pieces are his elegies on Burns and on Drake; Alnwick 
Castle , in which he celebrates the memory of ‘ the Percy’s 
high-born race; ’ Fanny , a playful satire upon the litera¬ 
ture and politics of the day; Red Jacket, the portrait of 
an Indian chief; and, finally, Marco Bozzaris , which 
raised its author to the first rank among the authors of 
war lyrics. 

Halleck wrote but little, thirty-two poems—about 4,000 
lines—forming the whole amount of his works. Few 
American poets, however, have been so highly lauded by 
American critics, few so often read and ardently admired 
in the social circles of the land. The following remarks of 
W. C. Bryant, thus account for certain rhythmical inequal¬ 
ities in Halleck’s poetry, which have sometimes been cen¬ 
sured as ungraceful: “ He is familiar with those general 
rules and principles which are the basis of metrical 
harmony; and his own unerring taste has taught him the 
exceptions which a proper attention to variety demands. 
He understands that the rivulet is made musical by obstruc¬ 
tions in the channel. In no poet can be found passages 
which flow with more sweet and liquid smoothness; but he 



496 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


knows very well that to make this smoothness perceived, 
and to prevent it from degenerating into monotony, occa¬ 
sional roughness must be interposed.” 

Marco Bozzaris. 

At Midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk lay dreaming of the hour, 

When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power. 

In dreams, ttirough camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams, his song of triumph heard : 

Then wore his monarch’s signet ring; 

Then pressed that monarch’s throne, a king ; 

As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

• As Eden’s garden-bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranked his Suliote band, 

True as the steel of their tried blades, 

Heroes in heart and hand. 

There, had the Persian’s thousands stood • 

There, had the glad earth drunk their blood, 

In old Platsoa’s day: 

And now, there breathed that haunted air, 

The sons of sires who conquered there, 

With arms to strike, and souls to dare, 

As quick, as far as they. 

An hour passed on ; the Turk awoke ; 

That bright dream was his last: 

He woke to hear his sentries shriek 
“ To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek ! ” 

He woke, to die mid flame and smoke, 

And shout, and groan, and saber-stroke, 

And death-shots falling thick and fast, 

As lightning from the mountain-cloud ; 

And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band ; 



the present century. 


497 


11 Strike! till the last armed foe expires ; 
Strike ! for your altars and your fires ; 
Strike ! for the green graves of your sires ; 
God, and your native land ! ” 

They fought like brave men, long and well; 

They piled the ground with Moslem slain 
They conquered, but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 

His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile, when rung their proud hurra, 
And the red field was won : 

They saw in death his eyelids close, 

Calmly as to a night’s repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death ; 

Come to the mother, when she feels 
For the first time, her first-born’s breath ; 

Come, when the blessed seals 
Which close the pestilence, are broke, 

And crowded cities wail its stroke; 

Come, in consumption’s ghastly form, 

The earthquake’s shock, the ocean storm, 
Come, when the heart beats high and warm, 
With banquet song, and dance, and wine, 
And thou art terrible; the tear, 

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 

And all we know, or dream, or fear 
Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 
Has won the battle for the free, 

Thy voice sounds like a prophet’s word, 

And in its hollow tones are heard 
• The* thanks of millions yet to be. 

Bozzaris ! with the storied brave, 

Greece nurtured in her glory’s prime, 

Rest thee; there is no prouder grave, 

Even in her own proud clime. 

42 * 





498 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


"We tell thy doom without a sigh, 

For thou art Freedom’s now, and Fame’s, 

One of the few, the immortal names, 

That were not born to die. 

JAKED SPAEKS, 1794-1866. 

Jared Sparks, whose numerous literary labors are so 
honorably connected with American history and biography, 
was born at Willington, Connecticut, in 1194. Having, 
in early life, to contend with straitened circumstances, he 
spent several years in the work of a farm and in mechanical 
pursuits ; and it was not till he had passed the age of boy¬ 
hood that he succeeded in obtaining a collegiate education. 
He was graduated at Harvard in 1811, and later on studied 
divinity in the University. In 1819, he was appointed 
pastor of a Unitarian church in Baltimore, and whilst there 
published a number of controversial writings called forth 
by the necessity of maintaining and defending his religious 
views. In 1823, he resigned his pastoral charge, and, 
returning to the North, became sole proprietor and editor 
of the North American Review, which he conducted till 
1830. He was McLean Professor of ancient and modern 
history at Harvard for eleven years, and the President of the 
same University from 1849 until 1853, when he resigned. 

The following are Spark’s principal publications : fifty- 
two articles contributed to the North American Review; 
Memoirs of Ledyard, the American traveller; Life and 
Writings of Washington , in ten volumes; Life and 
Writings of B. Franklin; The Library of American 
Biography , in twenty-five volumes, containing sixty lives, 
eight of which were written by the editor; Diplomatic 
Correspondence of the American Revolution, in twelve 
volumes, besides four others under the title of Correspon¬ 
dence of the American Revolution; Life of Gouverneur 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


499 


Morris in three volumes. As a scholar, Spark was re¬ 
markable for industry, perseverance, and patient research. 
No degree of labor could divert him from his task. His 
character was a union of simplicity and unassuming dignity, 
and his sweetness of temper made friends of all who knew 
him. The evening of his days was passed in the leisurely 
prosecution of the literary pursuits which had been the 
delight of his life. He died at Cambridge, in 1866. 

GEORGE TICKNOR, 1791-1871. 

George Ticknor, the distinguished historian of Spanish 
literature, was born in the city of Boston, in 1791. He 
received his degree at Dartmouth, at the early age of 
sixteen ; and, justly considering this as the beginning only, 
not the completion, of his education, he occupied himself 
for the following three years in diligently studying the 
ancient classics. At the age of nineteen, he began to 
prepare for the profession of the law, and after the usual 
term was admitted to the bar; his literary taste, however, 
led him in another direction, and he determined to become 
a scholar in, the best sense of the term. With this view he 
sailed for Europe in 1815 ; and, during four years, he lost 
no time in availing himself of the precious advantages 
which the well-filled libraries and university lectures afforded 
to his ardent zeal for instruction. During his absence he 
was appointed the first incumbent of a new professorship 
founded at Harvard, of French and Spanish literature. 
His lectures delivered from year to year on French and 
Spanish literature, on particular authors, as Dante and 
Goethe, on the English poets, and other kindred topics, 
excited the deepest interest, and enkindled among the 
students an enthusiasm for modern literature, which formed 
an era in the history of that venerable seat of learning. 



500 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


After fifteen years passed in these literary studies at 
Harvard, Ticknor resigned his professorship, and paid a 
second visit to Europe. In 1840, after his return to 
America, he commenced his important work, The History 
of Spanish Literature , and published it in 1849, in three 
octavo volumes. The work at once took its position among 
the most valuable contributions to the history of literature. 
Humboldt has characterized it as a masterly work; and 
the Edinburgh Review remarked that “perhaps of all the 
compositions of the kind Mr. Ticknor’s work has the most 
successfully combined popularity of style with sound criti¬ 
cism and extensive research within its own department.’’ 
In addition to the research and display of critical powers 
required in such a work, Ticknor took no inconsiderable 
care in translating both in prose and poetry. In this 
respect his labors are acknowledged to be exact and 
felicitous. 

Besides this History, Ticknor wrote a number of minor 
works and essays, among which we may notice a Memoir 
of Nathan Appleton Haven , and Remarks on the Life 
and Writings of Daniel Webster. But preeminent above 
all these and next only to the History of Spanish Litera¬ 
ture, is his Life of Prescott. It is perhaps the best 
biography in our literature. It is the work of an accom¬ 
plished scholar, who draws his facts from intimate personal 
knowledge, inspirited by sympathy of thought and feeling, 
and yet whose disciplined taste always keeps within the 
proper bounds of a discriminating biographer. We cannot 
conclude without mentioning the zeal displayed by Mr. 
Ticknor in the preparation and management of the Boston 
Public Library, which under his fostering care has grown 
to be the best selected and perhaps also the largest in the 
country. 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


501 


MARTIN JOHN SPALDING, 1810-1872. 

Martin John Spalding was born near Lebanon, Ken¬ 
tucky, in 1810. His parents were natives of Maryland, 
and removed to Kentucky in 1790. He received his 
education at St. Mary’s Seminary in the latter State, and 
was afterwards admitted into St. Joseph’s Seminary, 
Bardstown, as a student for Holy Orders. In 1830 he 
went to Rome and entered the celebrated Urban College of 
the Propaganda, where he passed four years in the diligent 
study of philosophy and theology. At the end of his 
course, he made a public defence of theology and canon- 
law, maintaining for seven hours, in the Latin language, 
two hundred and fifty-six propositions, or theses. 

Cardinal Angelo Mai presided at this interesting dispute, 
and Doctor, afterwards Cardinal Wiseman, Monsignor 
Mezzofanti, and Father Perrone, were among the dis¬ 
putants whom the young American had to contend against. 
He did not fail or hesitate in a single answer. At the end 
of the discussion, * the Cardinals rose, and shook hands 
with the Kentuckian, who was carried away by his fellow- 
students in triumph.’* He entered on his missionary 
duties as pastor of St. Joseph’s church at Bardstown, 
became President of St. Joseph’s College in 1843, was 
transferred as assistant priest to the Louisville Cathedral, 
and five years later was consecrated as coadjutor of the 
venerable Bishop Flaget of Louisville. Bishop Spalding 
spent sixteen years in Louisville, where he acquired great 
distinction by his many works of a religious and literary 
character. In 1864, by his appointment as successor to 
Archbishop Kenrick, on the Metropolitan See of Baltimore, 
he became Primate of Honor of the Roman Catholic 


♦Letter of Bishop England to the Catholic Miscellany, 1834. 






502 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


Church in the United States, thereby enjoying official 
precedence of all the prelates. 

Dr. Spalding was a prolific writer of varied powers. His 
principal works are Sketches of the Early Catholic Mis¬ 
sions of Kentucky; The Life and Times of Bishop 
Flaget; A Beview of d’Aubign&s History of the Refor¬ 
mation, which he afterwards enlarged, making it embrace 
The History of the Protestant Reformation in All Coun¬ 
tries ; Miscellanea, a collection of the Remews, Essays, 
and Lectures, prepared by the author at different times, 
and which, in their discursive range, treat on some fifty 
different subjects; and his Lectures on the Evidences of 
Catholicity. One of his last productions was the Pastoral 
on the Dogma of Infallibility, written in Rome immedi¬ 
ately after the Definition, and which has been widely read 
and admired in Europe and America. Some of Dr. Spald¬ 
ing’s works are more profound, and display deeper research 
than the Miscellanea; but that is his most popular volume. 
It is written in a strain of discursive criticism, and is 
remarkable for its happy off-hand treatment of the leading 
questions of the age, literary, religious, social, and his¬ 
torical. Perhaps the most elaborate of the essays in the 
Miscellanea, is the review of Daniel Webster’s Second 
Bunker Hill Oration. The extract which we give below 
will indicate the tone and style of its author. 

Archbishop Spalding died at his mansion in Baltimore 
on the 7th of February, 1872. No such wide-spread 
manifestations of regret as his death called forth, had been 
evoked in the monumental city since the death ot Charles 
Carroll of Carrollton. A comprehensive and interesting 
Life of the illustrious prelate has been given to the public 
by Rev. L. Spalding. 


TIIE PRESENT CENTURY. 


503 


From Lecture on Webster’s Bunker Hill Speech. 

Mr. Webster’s Bunker Hill speech is emphatically a great 
oration. It bears the impress of his mighty mind. What, for 
instance, could excel in beauty, and strength, his character of 
Washington? Or what could surpass, in stirring interest, his 
appeal to the feelings of his countrymen, in the peroration ? 

Notwithstanding our admiration of Mr. Webster’s talents, we 
do not precisely place him at the head of the list of American 
orators. He wants the pathos of Preston, the electric rapidity 
of Calhoun, and the versatile graces and manifold excellencies of 
Clay. But in massive volume of thought, in depth and closeness 
of reasoning, and in the eloquence of the head , he is scarcely 
equalled, certainly not surpassed, by any. This is his forte , and 
it manifests itself on all occasions, whether he is called on to 
defend the Union and the Constitution, or to vindicate his own 
State of Massachusetts. With him the flowers of rhetoric and 
appeals to feeling are but secondary things ; he uses them with 
considerable effect, when they come in his way, but he would not 
move one step from his path to cull all the flowers of a whole 
parterre. These remarks are intended to apply at least as much 
to the manner as to the matter of his Bunker Hill speech. This 
contains much that we admire, but much also to which a love of 
truth compels us to object. On the occasion of inaugurating a 
monument commemorative of a struggle which led to a nation’s 
freedom, we could have wished to see greater enlargement of 
views in the orator selected to give expression to the feelings of 
the day. We would have looked for a loftier tone of moral 
feeling, as well for less sweeping and more accurate statements 
of facts. Why give so undue a prominence to the “ Pilgrim 
Fathers,” and their immediate Puritan descendants, who, if there 
be any truth in history, were anything but the friends of, at least, 
religious liberty ? Why hold up this narrow-minded and exclu¬ 
sive people, of blue-law and witch-hanging memory, as very 
paragons of perfection for a nation of enlightened freemen ? 
Why not at least temper their eulogy with some qualifying 
remarks ? Why, in speaking of the origin and characteristics 
of our free institutions, pass over in utter silence William Penn 
and Lord Baltimore, who, in Pennsylvania and Maryland, did 
at least as much for civil liberty as the pilgrims, and much more 
than they for religious liberty ? 



504 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


EICHAED HENEY DANA, 1787- 

Richard Henry Dana, Sen., favorably known as a poet 
and essayist, was born at Cambridge, of an old and hon¬ 
ored family in Massachusetts. He spent three years at 
Harvard, after which he applied to the study of the law. 
He was admitted to practice; but he soon closed his office 
to follow another profession more congenial to his taste, 
that of writer. 

The American Review had been started in 1815, and in 
1818 he became associate editor of the Review with his 
cousin, E. T. Channing. During the two years of this con¬ 
nection, he wrote five papers chiefly on literary topics. In 
1824, he began the publication of The Idle Man , a peri¬ 
odical in which he commuuicated to the public his Tales 
and Essays. But the general tone of it was too high to 
be popular, and its publication was relinquished. His 
first poem, The Dying Raven , was published in 1825 in 
The New York Review, then edited by the poet Bryant. 

The work that has given most reputation to Dana, is 
The Buccaneer , which appeared in 1827, with some other 
poems. The Buccaneer is a philosophical tale in verse. 
In it the tragic and remorseful element exerts a powerful 
influence over the imagination, and elevates at the same 
time the aspirations of the human soul. The Blackwood 
Magazine of 1835 pronounced The Buccaneer the most 
powerful and original of American poetical compositions, 
and places its author in the same class, but in a lower 
rank, with the authors of Peter Bell and the Ancient 
Mariner. 

In 1839, Dana delivered a course of eight lectures on 
Shakspeare in Boston and New York, and subsequently 
repeated them in other cities of the Union. Intense 
interest was excited by these lectures, in which the excel- 


TIIE TRESENT CENTURY. 


505 


lences of the great dramatist were delineated with more 
than ordinary skill. The prose writings of Dana are in 
a style unencumbered by commonplace ornaments, and 
simple, direct, and forcible. 

Daybreak. 

Now, brighter than the host that all night long, 

In fiery armor, far up in the sky 

Stood watch, thou comest to wait the morning’s song, 

Thou comest to tell me day again is nigh, 

Star of the dawning l Cheerful is thine eye, 

And yet in the broad day it must grow dim ; 

Thou seem’st to look on me, as asking why 
My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim ; 

Thou bid’st me turn to God, and seek my rest in Him. 

How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft 
Shot ’thwart the earth ! In crown of living fire 
Up comes the day ! as if they conscious quaff’d— 

The sunny flood, hill, forest, city spire, 

Laugh in the wakening light. Go, vain desire! 

Th^ dusky lights are gone ; go thou thy way ! 

And pining discontent, like them, expire! 

Be call’d my chamber, Peace, when ends the day ; 

And let me with the dawn, like Filgrim, sing and pray. 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, 1794- 

William Cullen Bryant, a poet of national reputation, 
was born at Cummington, Massachusetts, in 1794. He 
began to write verses at nine; and at the age of fourteen 
published The Embargo, a poetical satire levelled at the 
Jeffersonian politics. Its success was such as to call for 
a second edition within a few months. At home, the 
genius of the young poet received a wise direction from 
the good taste of his father, and at Williams College he 
43 




506 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


laid up a rich store of classical learning. He now turned 
his attention to the study of the law, was admitted to the 
bar, and practised for ten years with more than ordinary 
success. 

Mr. Bryant did not, however, during the period of his pro¬ 
fessional studies, neglect the cultivation of his poetic talent. 
He was not yet nineteen, when he wrote Thanatopsis, a 
short poem of only eighty blank verses, but one that bids 
fair for the literary immortality of its author. Nor did 
this production stand alone: the Inscription for an 
Entrance into a Wood followed in 1813, and the Water- 
fowl in 1816. In 1821, he wrote his longest poem, The 
Ages, which was delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa 
Society of Harvard College. It is a didactic poem: 
it reviews the progress of past ages, and closes with a 
fair picture of American scenery, and the present occupa¬ 
tion of this country by a new race. In 1825, Mr. Bryant 
abandoned the law for literature, and became editor of a 
monthly periodical in New York; but, on the year fol¬ 
lowing, he took the management of The Evening Post, a 
daily paper which he has kept ever since. His prose 
writings, including the Letters of a Traveller which he 
sent to the Post in his visits of the Old World, are marked 
by neatness, simplicity, and purity of style. We must, 
however, take exception to another series of communica¬ 
tions made to his paper, in which he seems to delight in 
disparaging the Catholic Church in Mexico. 

At the request of the New York Historical Society, he 
delivered, in I860, an Address on the Life, Character, 
and Genius of Washington Irving. 

Many poetical productions, some of them hardly inferior 
to Thanatopsis, have been contributed by Mr. Bryant to 
various periodicals. We may mention in particular Wood, 
An Indian at the Grave of his Fathers, the Death of the 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


50T 


Flowers , The Prairies, the Hymn of the City, The Battle 
Field , and, among the best, The Disinterred Warrior. 
It has been justly observed that his poems are strictly 
American. In the words of his son-in-law, Parke Godwin, 
“they are American in their subjects, imagery, and spirit. 
. . . What the author has seen, or what has been wrought 
in his own mind, he has written, and no more. His skies 
are not brought from Italy, nor his singing birds from the 
tropics, nor his forests from Germany or regions beyond 
the pole.” “Bryant’s writings,” says Irving, “transport 
us into the depths of the solemn primeval forest, to the 
shores of the lonely lake—the banks of the wild nameless 
stream, or the brow of the rocky upland, rising like a 
promontory from amidst a wide ocean of foliage ; while 
they shed around us the glories of a climate fierce in its 
extremes, but splendid in all its vicissitudes.” We add 
that, in a religious point of view, Mr. Bryant, like so 
many other moralists of our time, does not rise above the 
teachings of natural religion. 

Mr. Bryant has just proved by his translation of the 
Iliad, that the vigor of his mind has not yet abated, and 
that his scholarship is equal to his poetical genius. Indeed, 
it is confidently asserted that ‘he has made the best trans¬ 
lation of Homer in our language, and with one exception 
the very best extant.’ * 

The regret has been frequently expressed that ‘ Mr. 
Bryant has chosen to scatter his brilliance amidst a con¬ 
stellation of little poetic stars, rather than to concentrate 
the light of his genius in some immortal work, which 
should shine as a planet in the literary horizon to the latest 
generation.’ f 


♦ See the criticism in The Catholic World, June, 1872; also, the Dublin 
Review, April, 1871, p. 319. t Allibone. 



508 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


Tiianatopsis. 

To him, who, in the love of Nature, holds 

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 

A various language ; for his gayer hours 

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 

And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 

Into his darker musings, with a mild 

And gentle sympathy, that steals away 

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. ’When thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images 

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart;— 

Go forth into the open sky, and list 
To Nature’s teaching, while from all around— 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,— 
Comes a still voice—Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet, in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements, 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 

Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thy eternal resting-place 

Shalt thou retire alone, nor could’st thou wish 

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 

With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings, 

The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


509 


Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the vales, 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 

The venerable woods ; rivers that move 

In majesty, and the complaining brooks 

That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, 

Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste— 

Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden'sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe, are but a handful, to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save its own dasliings—yet—the dead are there ; 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep: the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 

The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, 

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,— 

Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side, 

By those, who, in their turn, shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 

43* 


510 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 

Scourged to his dungeon, hut, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch, 

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.” 

GEORGE BANCROFT, 1800. 

George Bancroft, our national historian, was born at 
Worcester, Massachusetts, in 1800. His father, a con- 
gregationalist minister, spared nothing to give him a 
thorough education. In 1817, before he had completed 
his seventeenth year, young Bancroft received his degree 
of Bachelor of Arts at Harvard. The next year, having 
gone to Europe, he prosecuted his studies under eminent 
scholars at Gottingen and Berlin, and took the degree 
of Doctor of Philosophy in 1820. After his return to 
America, he published in The North American Beview 
some translations in verse of Schiller, Goethe, and other 
German authors. He also translated and edited several 
of Heeren’s historical works. But Mr. Bancroft’s fame as 
a writer rests upon his History of the United States. It 
comprises ten volumes, three of which are occupied with 
the history of the Colonies, three with the disputes between 
the Colonies and the Mother Country, and four with the 
War for Independence. The tenth volume, published in 
1874, concludes with the signing of the treaty of peace, 
November 30th, 1782. Mr* Bancroft’s History is, clearly, 
the most remarkable account of American affairs that has 
been yet written, and, considered as a whole, is certainly 
a great work. It is open, however, to very serious charges. 
It seems to be written, not simply for the sake of history, 
but with a view to set forth and confirm by history the 
author’s theories on God, man, and society, — theories, 
moreover that are unsound and in the last degree danger- 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


511 


ous.* “Mr. Bancroft’s style,” says Griswold, “is elabo¬ 
rate, scholarly, and forcible, though sometimes not without 
a visible effort at eloquence; and there is occasionally a 
dignity of phrase that is not in keeping with the subject 
matter. It lacks the delightful ease and uniform propor¬ 
tion which mark the diction of Prescott.” 

As a politician and diplomatist, Mr. Bancroft has acted 
considerable part in the affairs of his country. He was 
Collector of the Port of Boston in 1835, Secretary of the 
Navy in 1845, Minister Plenipotentiary to Great Britain 
in 1846, and finally American Ambassador at the court of 
Berlin from 1867 till lately when he resigned that office. 
The great accomplishments of Mr. Bancroft render only 
keener the regret that his great work—his History—should 
have failed to be a monument every way worthy of the 
national grandeur to which it is raised. 


Peace between the United States and Great Britain, 

1782. 

(Prom Conclusion to the tenth volume of the History of the 
United States.) 

The articles of peace, though entitled provisional, were made 
definitive by a declaration in the preamble. Friends of Franklin 
gathered around him, and as the Duke of Rochefoucauld kissed 
him for joy, “ My friend ,” said Franklin, “ could I have hoped 
at such an age to have enjoyed so great happiness ? ” The treaty 
was not a compromise, nor a compact imposed by force, but a 
free and perfect solution, and perpetual settlement of all that had 
been called in question. By doing an act of justice to her former 
colonies, England rescued her own liberties at home for imminent 
danger, and opened the way for their slow but certain develop¬ 
ment. The narrowly selfish colonial policy which had led to the 


*See an excellent criticism of the first three volumes, in Brovrnson’s 
Review for October, 1852. 



512 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


cruel and unnatural war was cast aside and forever by Great 
Britain, which was henceforward as the great, colonizing power 
to sew all the oceans with the seed of republics. For the United 
States, the war, which began by an encounter with a few hus¬ 
bandmen embattled on Lexington Green, ended with their inde¬ 
pendence, and possession of all the country from the St. Croix to 
the south-western Mississippi, from the Lake of the Woods to the 
St. Mary. In time past, republics had been confined to cities and 
their dependencies, or to small cantons ; and the United States 
avowed themselves able to fill a continental territory with com¬ 
monwealths. They possessed beyond any other portion of the 
world the great ideas of their ago, and enjoyed the practice of them 
by individual man in uncontrolled faith and industry, thought 
and action. For other communities, institutions had been built 
up by capitulations and acts of authoritative power ; the United 
States of America could shape their coming relations wisely only 
through the widest and most energetic exercise of the right inhe¬ 
rent in humanity to deliberation, choice, and assent. While the 
constitutions of their separate members, resting on the principle 
of self-direction, were, in most respects, the best in the world, 
they had no general government; and as they went forth upon 
untried paths, kings expected to see the confederacy fly into frag¬ 
ments. or lapse into helpless anarchy. But, for all the want of a 
government, their solemn pledge to one another of mutual citi¬ 
zenship and perpetual union made them one people; and that 
people was superior to its institutions, possessing the vital force 
which goes before organization, and gives to it strength and form. 
Yet, for success, the liberty of the individual must know how to 
set to itself bounds ; and the states, displaying the highest quality 
of greatness, must learn to temper their rule of themselves by 
their own moderation. 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, 1807 -. 

Henry W. Longfellow, the son of the late Hon. Stephen 
Longfellow, was born in Portland, Maine, in 1807. At 
the age of fourteen he was entered at Bowdoin College, 
and, along with Hawthorne, was graduated in the famous 
class of 1825—the semi-centennial celebration of which 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


513 


event he lias lived to observe and to sing in his charming 
poem Morituri Salutamus . After quitting college, Long¬ 
fellow began the study of law in his father’s office, in 
Boston ; but, being called to the chair of modern languages 
in his Alma Mater, he went abroad in 1826, in order to 
qualify himself for the duties of professor. In England, 
France, Spain, Italy, Germany, and Holland, he spent 
three years and a half in the prosecution of polite study. 
In 1829, he entered on his office atBowdoin. In 1835, on 
the retirement of George Ticknor from Harvard College, 
Longfellow was elected Professor of belles-lettres in that 
institution. A second trip to Europe with purposes similar 
to the first, was made. He held his professorship at Har¬ 
vard until 1854 when he retired to the seclusion of his 
study, and since that time he has occupied no official 
position. 

Longfellow is a linguist, being thoroughly acquainted 
with eleven or twelve languages. He is eminent as an 
English scholar, having for over fifty years devoted himself 
to literature with ardor and judgment. A born poet, with 
such store-houses of learning and culture at his command, 
he has enriched the language with a profusion of poems 
interspersed with prose works and translations. The prin¬ 
cipal among his writings are: Coplas De Manrique , 
translated from the Spanish ; Outre-Mer , a Pilgrimage 
beyond the Sea , in poetical prose; Hyperion , a Romance; 
Voices of the Night; Ballads and other Poems; Poems 
on Slavery; The Spanish Student, a Play; The Belfry 
of Bruges and other Poems; Evangeline , a Tale of 
Acadie, the brightest gem of the whole casket; Kavanagh , 
a tale; The Sea-side and the Fireside; The Golden Le¬ 
gend; The Poets and poetry of Europe ; The Song of 
Hiawatha; The Courtship of Miles Standish; Tales of 
a Wayside Inn; New England Tragedies; The Divine 



514 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


Tragedy; and, finally, in three octavos his noble translation 
of Dante’s Divina Commedia. 

The genius of Longfellow is characterized by breadth, 
strength, and exquisite beauty. Perhaps no other poet of 
this century has written so many things which have become 
the companion-pictures of scholars and unlettered people 
alike. 

Mr. Longfellow is not only the most popular poet in 
America, but perhaps in a more marked degree, undoubt¬ 
edly in as high a degree, the most popular poet of Great 
Britain. Let us take the testimony of Cardinal Wiseman 
on the subject. In his Lecture on the Home Education 
of the Poor, the late cardinal said : “ There is no greater 
lack in English literature than that of a poet of the people— 
of one who shall be to the laboring classes of England 
what Goethe is to the peasant of Germany. He was a 
true philosopher who said, ‘ Let me make the songs of a 
nation, and I care not who makes its laws.’ There is 
one writer who approaches nearer than any other to this 
standard; and he has already gained such a hold on our 
hearts, that it is almost unnecessary for me to mention his 
name. Our hemisphere cannot claim the honor of having 
brought him forth; but still he belongs to us, for his works 
have become as household words wherever the English lan¬ 
guage is spoken. And whether we are charmed by his 
imagery, or soothed by his melodious versification, or 
elevated by the high moral teachings of his pure Muse, or 
follow with sympathizing hearts the wanderings of Evan¬ 
geline, I am sure that all who hear my voice will join 
with me in the tribute I desire to pay to the genius of 
Longfellow.” 

Mr. Longfellow has made greater use of dactylic and 
trochaic metres than any other writer of English verse; 
and, if he has not succeeded in giving to these measures 


TIIE PRESENT CENTURY. 


515 


the popularity enjoyed by iambics, he has, at least, proved 
a wonderful talent for the rhythmical art. 

A Psalm of Life. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 

Life is but an empty dream f 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real! Life is earnest 1 
And the grave is not its goal; 

Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 

But to act, that each to-morrow 
Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world’s broad field of battle 
In the bivouac of life, 

Be not like dumb, driven cattle I 
Be a hero in the strife. 

Trust no future, howe’er pleasant! 

Let the dead past bury its dead ! 

Act,—act in the living present! 

Heart within, and God o’erhcad ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
W T e can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time ;— 





516 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 


Conclusion of Evangeline. 

Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, 
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. 
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard, 

In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. 

Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, 
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for- . 
ever, 

Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy, 
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their 
labors, 

Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their 
journey! 

Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its 
branches 

Dwells another race, with other customs and language. 

Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic 
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile 
Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. 

In the fisherman’s cot the wheel and the loom are still busy ; 
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of home- 
spun, 

And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline’s story, 

While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring 
ocean 

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the 
forest. 


THE PRESENT CENTURY. 


517 


Tiie Legend Beautiful. 

From the Tales of a Wayside Inn.—The Second Day. 

“ Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled! ” 

That is what the Vision said. 

In his chamber all alone, 

Kneeling on the floor of stone, 

Prayed the Monk in deep contrition 
For his sins of indecision, 

Prayed for greater self-denial 
In temptation and in trial; 

It was noonday by the dial, 

And the Monk was all alone. 

Suddenly, as if it lightened, 

An unwonted splendor brightened 
All within him and without him 
In that narrow cell of stone; 

And he saw the Blessed Vision 
Of our Lord, with light Elysian 
Like a vesture wrapped about him, 

Like a garment round him thrown. 

Not as crucified and slain, 

Not in agonies of pain, 

Not with bleeding hands and feet, 

Did the Monk his Master see; 

But as in the village street, 

In the house or harvest-field, 

Halt and lame and blind he healed, 

When he walked in Galilee. 

In an attitude imploring, 

Hands upon his bosom crossed, 

Wondering, worshipping, adoring, 

Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. 

44 


518 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest 
Who am I, that from the centre 
Of thy glory thou shouldst enter 
This poor cell, my guest to be ? 

Then amid his exaltation, 

Loud the convent hell appalling, 

From its belfry calling, calling, 

Eang through court and corridor 
With persistent iteration 
He had never heard before. 

It was now the appointed hour, 

When alike in shine or shower, 

Winter’s cold or summer’s heat, 

To the convent portals came 
All the blind and halt and lame, 

All the beggars of the street, 

For their daily dole of food 
Dealt them by the brotherhood ; 

And their almoner was he 
Who upon his bended knee, 

Bapt in silent ecstacy 
Of divinest self-surrender, 

Saw the Vision and the Splendor. 

Deep distress and hesitation 
Mingled with his adoration ; 

Should he go, or should he stay ? 

Should he leave the poor to wait 
Hungry at the convent gate, 

Till the vision passed away ? 

Should he slight his radiant guest, 

Slight his visitant celestial, 

For a crowd of ragged, bestial 
Beggars at the convent gate ? 

Should the Vision there remain ? 

Would the Vision come again? 

Then a voice within his breast 
Whispered, audible and clear 


the present century. 


519 


As if to the outward ear : 

“ thy duty ; that is best; 

Leave unto thy Lord the rest! ” 

Straightway to his feet he started, 
And with longing look intent 
On the Blessed Vision bent, 

Slowly from his cell departed, 

Slowly on his errand went. 

At the gate the poor were waiting, 
Looking through the iron grating, 
With that terror in the eye 
That is only seen in those 
Who amid their wants and woes 
Hear the sound of doors that close, 
And of feet that pass them by ; 

Grown familiar with disfavor, 

Grown familiar with the savor 
Of the bread by which men die ! 

But to-day, they knew not why, 

Like the gate of Paradise 
Seemed the convent gate to rise, 

Like a sacrament divine 
Seemed to them the bread and wine. 
In his heart the Monk was praying, 
Thinking of the homeless poor, 

What they suffer and endure ; 

What we see not, what we see; 

And the inward voice was saying: 

“ Whatsoever thing thou doest 
To the least of mine and lowest, 

That thou doest unto me.” 

Unto me I but had the Vision 
Come to him in beggar’s clothing, 
Come a mendicant imploring, 

Would he then have knelt adoring, 

Or have listened with derision, 

And have turned away with loathing ? 


520 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


Thus his conscience put the question, 
Full of troublesome suggestion, 

As at length, with hurried pace, 
Towards his cell he turned his face, 
And beheld the convent bright 
With a supernatural light, 

Like a luminous cloud expanding 
Over floor and wall and ceiling. 

But he paused with awe-struck feeling 
At the threshold of his door, 

For the Vision still was standing 
As he left it there before, 

When the convent bell appalling, 
From its belfry calling, calling, 
Summoned him to feed the poor. 
Through the long hour intervening 
It had waited his return, 

And he felt his bosom burn, 
Comprehending all the meaning, 
When the Blessed Vision said, 

“ Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled ! ” 



INDEX. 

Abbreviations:— Spec, for specimen ; ext. for extract. 


A. 

Abbot (The ), a novel, by Scott, 
316 

Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey, 
by irving, 485. 

A. B. C., a poem, by Chaucer, 
85; ext., 95-6. 

Absalom and Achitophel , a poli¬ 
tical satire, by Dryden, 201. 

Adams (John, 1735-1826), his 
eloquence, 422. 

Addison, 211-3; spec., 213-7; 
compared with Johnson, 274; 

the American -, a name 

given to Dennie, 455. 

Address on Washington Irving, 
by Bryant, 606. 

Address to the N. Y. Convention, 
by Jay, 446-7. 

Address to the People of Great 
Britain , 445. 

Admirals (The Two), a novel, 
by Cooper, 472. 

Adrian (Abbot), sent to Eng¬ 
land, 35. 

Adventures (The) of Capt. Bon¬ 
neville, by Irving, 485. 

Adversity (Ode to), by Gray, 255. 

^Elfric the Grammarian, 50; 
spec., 51. 

^Etius, letter sent to him by 
the Britons, 29. 

Agassiz (L. J. R., 1807-1875), 
a scientist, 456. 

Age of Reason, Franklin’s warn¬ 
ing about its publication, 427. 

Ages (The), by Bryant, 506. 

Ages (The Four), a didactic 
poem, by Cowper, 293. 

Agricola, his conquest of Bri¬ 
tain, 26. 

44 * 


Aids to Reflection, by Coleridge, 
329. 

Alenin, 44-6; Address to his 
Cell, 46. 

Aldhelm (St ), 39-40. 

Alexander the Great, a drama, 
by A. de Vere, 408; ext., 
409-12. 

Alexander's Feast, an ode, by 
Dryden, 203, 206-8. 

Alfred the Great, 47-9; spec., 
50; his opinion of St. Ald¬ 
helm, 40; his character, by 
Hume, 270. 

Alhambra ( The), by Irving, 484. 

Alison (Archibald, 1792-1867) ; 
his opinion of Lord Jeffrey, 
351 ; of Prescott, 481. 

Allen (Dr., 1770-1843), his 

opinion of Lingard’s style, 
355. 

Allibone (S. A., 1816- ), on 

Chaucer’s last hours, 87; on 
Addison, 212; on Hume’s 
History, 268 ; on Burke’s vir¬ 
tue, 289; on Franklin’s lati- 
tudinarianism, 425; on Jef¬ 
ferson’s infidelity, 442; on 
Dennie, 455. 

Allston (Washington) 461-2; 
spec , 462-3. 

Almanac (Poor Richard's), by 
Franklin, 426. 

Alnwick Castle , by Halleck, 495. 

Ambiguity of the Eng. Language, 
a satire by Hopkinson, 432. 

America (Rising Glory of Amer¬ 
ica), a poem, 437. 

America to Great Britain by 
Allston, 462-3. 

American Literature, 1st period, 
413-22; 2d,422-52; 3d, 453- 

521 


522 


INDEX. 


520; progress of—, 453-4; 
Cyclopaedia of —, see Duyc- 
kinck. 

American Notes, by Dickens, 
388. 

American Revolution, (History 
of the), by Ramsay, 436. 

Ames (Fisher, 1758-1808), an 
American orator, 422. 

Anglo-Saxons, their Heptarchy, 
28; barbarity, 28-9; treat¬ 
ment of the Britons, 29 ; con¬ 
version to Christianity, 30; 
beginning of their literature, 
30; characteristics of their 
poetry, 32; their learning, 
33-4; characteristics of the 
A. S. Period, 53; A. S. 
Chronicle, 53. 

Angus (Joseph, 1816- ), his 

comparison of Southwell with 
Goldsmith, 126; his opinion 
of Cowper, 293; of Scott’s 
novels, 317; of novel-reading, 
322-3 ; of Crabbe, 326 ; of S. 
Smith, 343. 

Annual Register, founded by 
Burke, 288. 

Annus Mirabilis, a historical 
poem, by Dryden, 201. 

Anselm (St ), 67-8. 

Antiquary ( The ), a novel, by 
Scott, 316. 

Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon 
Church , by Lingard, 355. 

Apologia pro Vila Sud, by Dr. 
Newman, 397. 

Apothegms, by Franklin, 429- 
430. 

Appeal , by Card. Wiseman, 382. 

Appeal [An) from the judgments 
of Great Britain , by Walsh, 
488. 

April (An) Day, by Chaucer, 94. 

Areopagitica , by Milton, 180. 

Arnold (Thomas), his opinion 
of the leaders of the Refor¬ 
mation in regard to literature, 
113. 


Arthur (King), 197. 

As You Like It, a comedy, by 
Shakspeare, 144; ext., 148-50. 

Ascbam (Roger), 106; spec., 
107-10. 

Astoria, by Irving, 485. 

Augustine (St.), is sent as a 
missioner to England, 30; 
promotes letters, 30; his ar¬ 
rival in Kent described by 
Bede, 43-4. 

Autobiography, of Franklin, 
427 ; — of Jefferson, 442. 

B. 

Backwoodsman [The), a poem, 
by Paulding, 490. 

Bacon (Lord Franeis), 164-6; 
spec., 166-8. 

Bacon (Roger), 77. 

Ballad [A Camp), an allegory, 
by Hoplcinson, 431. 

Ballads, by Longfellow, 513. 

Bancroft (George), 510-11 ; 
spec., 511-12; on the aboli¬ 
tion of the slave-trade, 119; 
on the Rhode Island Charter 
of religious rights, 417, note ; 
his acknowledgment to C. 
Colden, 421. 

Bard , ( The) an ode, by Gray, 
255. 

Battle [The) Field, by Bryant, 
507. 

Battle of the Baltic, an ode, by 
Campbell, 338. 

Battle [The) of the Books, by 
Swift, 230. 

Battle ( The) of the Kegs, a bal¬ 
lad, by Hopkinson, 431,432-5. 

Beattie (James), 301-2; spec., 
302-4. 

Bede (Venerable), 41-3; spec., 
43-4 ; his opinion of St. Aid- 
helm’s scholarship, 40. 

Belknap (Jeremy), 435. 

Bee {The), a periodical, 260; 
ext., 265. 


INDEX. 


523 


Belfry ( The) of Bruges, by 
Longfellow, 513. 

Beppo, a romantic poem, by- 
Byron, 305. 

Biographia Literaria, by Cole¬ 
ridge, 329. 

Blackwood Magazine, its opin¬ 
ion of Macaulay’s History , 
375. 

Bleak House, a novel, by Dick¬ 
ens, 388. 

Bolingbroke, an infidel philo¬ 
sopher, 115, 224, 287. 

Bonneville (Adventures of Capt .), 
by Irving, 485. 

Book of the Church, by Southey, 
335 " 

Borough (The), a poem, by 
Cra'bbe, 326. 

Boswell (James, 1740-1795), his 
Life of S. Johnson, 273. 

Boy's Book, by Mrs. Sigourney, 
477. 

Boz (Sketches by), by Dickens, 
386. 

Bozzaris, a war lyric, by IIal- 
leck, 495, 496-8. 

Bracebridge Hall, by Irving, 
484. 

Brackenridge, (Hugh n ), 437- 
438; spec., 438-9. 

Bride (The) of Abydos, a roman¬ 
tic poem, by Byron, 305. 

Britons, their wars against the 
Homans, pagan manners, con¬ 
version, 26. 

Brown (C. B.), 455-7. 

Brownson (Orestes A., 1803- ), 
his opinion of Wordsworth, 
347-8; of Wiseman’s Fabiola, 
382 ; Essays , 383 ; of Daniel 
Webster, 468; his contribu¬ 
tions to Christian philosophy, 
454. 

Bryant (W. Cullen), 505-7 ; 
spec., 507-10; his opinion of 
Halleck, 495. 

Buccaneer (The), a poem, by B. 
II. Dana, 504. 


Bunker (First and Second) Hill 
Speech, by D. Webster, 467, 
469-71. 

Burke (Edmund), 286-9 ; spec , 
290-1 ; his encouragement of 
Crabbe, 325. 

Burning (The) Babe, a poem, 
by Southwell, 126, 129. 

Burns (Kobert, 1759-1796), Hal¬ 
leck’s elegy on him, 495. 

Butler (Samuel), 196-8; spec., 
198-201. 

Byron (Lord), 304-7; spec, 
307-10; his lines on Words¬ 
worth, 347. 

C. 

Caxlmon, 38-9; spec., 32, 35. 

Cffisar, his attempts to conquer 
Britain, 26. 

Cain and Manfred, a drama, by 
Byron, 305. 

Calhoun (J. C., 1782-1850), an 
orator and statesman, 453. 

Callista , a religious story, by 
Dr. Newman, 397. 

Calvert (Sir George), Lord Bal¬ 
timore, 416. 

Calm (A), by Coleridge, 331. 

Campbell (Thomas), 338-40; 
spec., 340-2; his opinion of 
Goldsmith. 261. 

Canterbury Tales , by Chaucer, 
85-7; ext., 88-94. 

Captain Singleton , by Defoe, 218. 

Castle ( The) of Indolence, an al • 
legory. by Thomson, 237; 
ext., 240-1. 

Cato, a tragedy, by Addison, 212. 

Caxton (Wiliiam), 101. 

Celtic race, 25-6. 

Challenge (Reply to a), by H. 
H. Brackenridge, 438. 

Chambers (Kobert, 1802-1871), 
author of Cyclopaedia of Eng. 
Lit., his opinion of Lingard’s 
History, 355; of Irving’s 
style, 486. 




524 


INDEX. 


Character of Alfred the Great, 
by Hume, 270. 

Character of aYorkshireSchool- 
master, by Dickens, 389. 

Character of Washington, by 
Jefferson, 442-5. 

Chartism, by Carlyle, 394. 

Chateaubriand, on Paradise 
Lost , 183. 

Chaucer, 84-8 ; spec., 88-96. 

Childe Harold, a descriptive 
poem, by Byron, 304, 306; 
ext., 307-10. 

Child's Book, by Mrs. Sigour¬ 
ney, 477. 

Chivalry {Modern), by H. H. 
Brackenridge, 437, 438. 

Chj'istabel , a poem, by Coler¬ 
idge, 329. 

Christmas Tales, by Dickens, 
388. 

Chronicle ( Anglo-Saxon ), 53. 

Chroniclers (Rhyming), 70. 

Chrysostom (St. John), as an 
orator, by Dr. Newman, 398. 

Church (Description of a), by 
Hopkinson, 431 

Church (St. Peter’s), at Rome, 
by Byron, 309-10. 

Church (The Catholic), what 
she has done for literature 
and Christian civilization, 30, 
58, 118, 119, 120. 

Citizen {The) of the World, by 
Goldsmith, 260. 

Clara Howard, a novel, by C. 
B. Brown, 456. 

Cleveland, (C. D , 1802-1869), 
his opinion of Byron’s works, 
307; of Scott’s novels. 317. 

Colden (Cadwallader), 421. 

Coleridge (S. T.), 328-30 ; spec., 
330-3. 

Collins (William), 242-3 ; spec., 
243-8. 

Colonel Jacque, by Defoe, 218. 

Columbus {Life of) by Irving, 
484. 

Columbus (Pictures of) by Fre¬ 
neau, 451. 


Columbus discovering America, 
by Robertson, 279-80. 

Comus, a masque, by Milton, 
180. 

Confessio Amantis, a poem, by 
Chaucer, 97. 

Conquest of Granada , a play, 
by Dryden, 201. 

Conquest of Granada, by Irv¬ 
ing, 484. 

Conquest of Mexico , by Pres¬ 
cott, 480; ext., 482-3. 

Constitution of the U. S., de¬ 
bates in the Convention that 
framed it, recorded by Madi¬ 
son, 447. 

Constitutional History of Eng¬ 
land, by Hallam, 371. 

Continental {The Old), by Paul¬ 
ding, 490. 

Cooper (Fenimore),471-2; spec., 
472-6. 

Coplas de Manrique, by Long¬ 
fellow, 513. 

Correspondence of Jefferson 442. 

Corsair {The), a romantic poem, 
by Byron, 305. 

Cowley (Abraham), 175-6; 
spec., 176-9. 

Cowper (William),291-4; spec., 

294-301 ; Life of -, by 

Southey, 336. 

Crabbe (George), 325-6; spec., 
326-7. 

Craik (Prof, 1799-1866), on 
Cowper’s Homer. 

Cromwell (Letters and Speeches 
of), by Carlyle, 394. 

Crusades (The), their civilizing 
influence, 57, 119. 

Curriculum of a liberal educa¬ 
tion, 61. 

Curse of Kehama, an epic poem, 
by Southey, 334. 

Cyclopaedia (Rees’s American), 
on novel-reading, 324. 

Cyclopaedia of American Lit¬ 
erature, see Duyckinck; - 

of English Literature, see 
Chambers. 




INDEX. 525 


D. 

Dana (R. H.), 504-5; spec., 
505. 

Dante’s Divina Commedia, 
translated by Longfellow, 
514. 

David Copper field, a novel, by 
Dickens, 388; ext., 391-2. 

Davideis , an epic poem, by 
Crowley, 175. 

Day of Doom , a poem by Wig- 
glesworth, 418. 

Daybreak , by Dana, 505. 

Death of the Flowers, bv Bryant, 
500. 

Declaration of American Inde¬ 
pendence, 441. 

Decline and Fall of the Reman 
Empire, by Gibbon, 281 ; 
ext., 283-6. 

Deerslayer (The), a novel, by 
Cooper, 472. 

Defoe (Daniel), 217-8; spec, 
218-22. 

Degrees (Academical), in me¬ 
diaeval Universities, 63. 

Demonology (Letters on), by 
Scott, 817. 

Donnie (Joseph), 454-5. 

Descriptive Sketches in verse , by 
Wordsworth, 316. 

Deserted (The) Village, by Gold¬ 
smith, 261 ; ext., 263-5. 

Dickens (Charles), 386-9 ; spec., 
389-2. 

Dictionary of the English Lan¬ 
guage, by Johnson, 272. 

Didactics, by Walsh, 489. 

Dirge in Cymbeline, an elegy, 
by Collins, 242. 

Discourses (Political), by Hume, 
267. 

Disraeli (1805- ), his opin¬ 

ion of the Oxford Movement, 
396 

Doctor (The), by Southey, 335. 

Dombey and Son, a novel, by 
Dickens, 388. 


Don Juan, a poem, by Byron, 
306. 

Doom (Day of), by Wiggles- 
worth, 418. 

Drake (J. R., 1795-1820), Hal- 
leck’s elegy, 495. 

Drama, 142-3. 

Drapier's Letters, by Swift, 230. 

Drayton (Michael, 1563-1631), 
his Polyolbion, 71; his Epistle 
to Sandys, 415. 

Dream of Gerontius , by Dr. 
Newman, 397. 

Dryden (John), 201-4; spec., 
204-11; his opinion of Sbak- 
speare, 146; compared with 
Pope by Johnson, 276-7 ; his 
works edited by Scott, 204. 

' Dublin Review, its opinion of 
Dickens, 388-9; of Aubrey 
de Vere’s Alexander the Great, 
408. 

Duel (Origin and History of), 
by Bishop England, 465; 
ext., 465-6. 

Dtdlness (Progress of), a satir¬ 
ical poem, by Trumbull, 449. 

Dumb ( The) Philosopher, a 
story, by Defoe, 217. 

Duncan Campbell, by Defoe, 218. 

Dunciad, by Pope, 223. 

Dutchman's (The) Fireside, a 
novel, by Paulding, 490. 

Duyckinck (Evart, 1816- , 

and George, 1823-1863), au¬ 
thors of the Cyclopaedia of 
American Literature, on San¬ 
dy s’s Ovid , 415 ; on 2d period 
of Amer. Lit , 423 ; on Wirt, 
458. 

E. 

Edgar Huntly, a novel, by C. 
B. Brown, 436. 

Edgeworth (Miss, 1767-1849), 
morality of her novels, 323. 

Edinburgh Review, its founda¬ 
tion and editorship, 342, 351; 


52G 


INDEX. 


its opinion of Lingard’s style, 
355; of Hallam’s Literature, 
371 ; of Thackeray’s Vanity 
Fair, 378. 

Education a discipline of the 
mind, by Dr Newman, 398; 

Education [Oration on Classi¬ 
cal ), by Bp. England, 465. 

Egbert, abp. of York, 35; his 
school, 44. 

Elegy written in a Country 
Churchyard, by Gray, 255, 
256-8. 

Embargo ( The), a poetical satire, 
by Bryant, 505. 

England, * her conversion to 
Christianity, civilization. 30. 

England (Bishop), 463-5; spec., 
465-6. 

English Bards and Scotch Re¬ 
viewers, a satire in verse, by 
Byron, 304; ext., 

English Language [Ambiguity 
of the), a satire by Hopkin- 
son, 432. 

English Language, its origin. 
29 ; number of its words, 30. 

English Literature, its division 
into periods—Anglo-Saxon, 
25-53; Semi-Saxon, 54-72; 
Old English, 73-78; Middle 
English, 79-110; Modern 
English, 111-412; its char¬ 
acter under Elizabeth, 122, 
352-4; in the 17th century, 
123; 18th, 123; 19th, 124/ 

Epicurean [The), a tale, by 
Moore, 362. 

Epitaph—of Bede. 43 ; S. But¬ 
ler, 198; Coleridge, 330; 
Wigglesworth, 419. 

Erin [Exile of), an ode, by 
Campbell, 341-2. 

Erse, dialect of Scotland, 36. 

Escape from a Panther, by 
Cooper, 472. 

Esmond, a novel,by Thackeray, 
379. 

Essay in Aid of a Grammar of 
Assent, by Dr. Newman, 397. 


Essay on Criticism , b} T Pope, 

. 223; ext., 225-7. 

Essay on Dramatic Poetry , by 
Dry den, 203. 

Essay on Man, by Pope, 223; 
ext., 227-8 

Essay on the Sublime and Beau¬ 
tiful, by Burke, 287. 

Essay on Truth, by Beattie, 301. 

Essay on Whitewashing , a satire, 
by Hopkinson, 431. 

Essays, by Beattie, 301. 

Essays (Critical and Historical ), 
by Macaulay, 374. 

Essays [Moral), by Lord Bacon, 
164: ext., 166-8. 

Essays [Moral and Political ), 
by D. Hume, 267 ; Philoso¬ 
phical —ibid. 

Evangeline, a tale in verse, by 
Longfellow, 513; ext., 516. 

Evening [Ode to), by Collins, 
243, 247-8. 

Evening {An) Walk, an epistle 
in verse, by Wordsworth, 346. 

Everett (Alexander,! 790-1847), 
his opinion of Carlyle’s Sartor 
Resartus, 393. 

Every Man in his Humor, a 
comedy, by Ben Jonson, 168. 

Evidences of Christianity , by 
Addison, 212 

Eulogium on Dr. Rush, by Bam- 
say, 436. 

Europe in Middle Ages, by Hal- 
lam, 370. 

Exile of Erin , an ode, by Camp¬ 
bell, 338, 341-2. 

F. 

Fabiola, a religious story, by 
Card. Wiseman, 382; ext., 
384-6. 

Fables, by Dryden, 203. 

Fairie [The) Queene, by Spen¬ 
ser, 133; ext., 135-6. 

Fame (Vanity of Popular), by 
Goldsmith, 265-6 

Fanny , a satire, by Halleck, 495. 


INDEX. 


521 


Farrago (The), by Dennie, 455. 

Federalist (The ), 439, 445, 448. 

Federalists, 441. 

Ferdinand and Isabella (Reign 
of), by Prescott, 480. 

Fielding (1707-1754), character 
of his novels, 322. 

Flaget (Life of Bp.), by Abp. 
Spalding, 502. 

Flower (The) and the Leaf, an 
allegorical poem, by Chaucer, 
85. 

Foresters (The), an allegory, by 
Belknap, 435. 

Fortunes ( The) of Nigel , a novel, 
by Scott, 316. 

Franklin (Benjamin), 425—8; 
spec., 428-30; his testimony 
on Hume’s death, 268; Life 
of—, by Spark, 498. 

Frederick the Great (History of), 
by Carlyle, 394 ; his portrait, 
394—5. 

French (The) Revolution , by 
Carlyle, 394. 

Freneau (Philip), 450-1; spec , 
451-2. 

Friend (The), a periodical, ed¬ 
ited by Coleridge, 329; ext., 
331-2. 

Fudge Family in Paris, a satire, 
by Moore, 360. 

G. 

Germanic or Teutonic race, 25. 

Gerontius (Dream of), by Dr. 
Newman, 397. 

Giaour, a romantic poem, by 
Byron, 305. 

Gibbon (Edward), 281-3; spec., 
283-6. 

Gil das (St.), 36; spec., 37. 

Gleanings in Europe, by Cooper, 
472. 

Gloucester (Robert of), a rhym¬ 
ing chronicler, 75. 

Godwin (Parke, 1816-), his 
opinion of Bryant, 507. 


Goldsmith (Oliver),260-2; spec., 
263-6; Life of—, by Irving, 
485. 

Gorboduc, the earliest English 
tragedy, by Sackville,139,143. 

Gotham (The three I Vise Men 
of), a satire, by Paulding, 
490. 

Gower (John), 97. 

Grammar (A) of Assent, by Dr. 
Newman, 397. 

Gray (Thomas), 254-6; spec., 
356-9. 

Great Expectations, a novel, by 
Dickens, 388. 

Gregory (St.) the Great, sends 
missioners to England, 30. 

Griswold (Kufus, 1815-1857), 
his opinion of Bancroft’s 
style, 511. 

Guardian (The), 211. 

Gulliver's Travels , by Swift, 
230; ext., 234. 

Guy Mannering, a novel, by 
Scott, 316. 

II. 

Hadad, a sacred drama, by Hill- 
house, 460. 

Hall (Robert, 1764-1831), his 
opinion of moral novels, 323. 

Hallam (Henry), 370-2 ; spec., 
372-3; his views, on the preser¬ 
vation of the Latin language, 
58 ; on the transition of the 
Saxon into the Eng. language, 
66; the influence of the Re¬ 
formation upon literature, 
113; religious liberty, 117; 
Shakspeare’s Macbeth , 146; 
Shakspeare’s genius, 372-3. 

Halleck (Fitz-Greene), 495-6; 
spec., 496-8. 

Hamilton (Alexander), 439-40. 

Hamlet, a tragedy, by Shak- 
speare, 146. 

Hand (Left), her petition, by 
Franklin, 428-9. 




52S 


INDEX. 


Hard Times , a novel, by Dick¬ 
ens, 388. 

Henry (Joseph, 1797- ), a 

scientist, 454. 

Henry (Patrick, 1736-1797), his 
eloquence, 422; Life, by 
Wirt, 457. 

Henry (Dr. Robert, 1718-1790), 
his opinion of St. Aldholm’s 
scholarship, 39. 

Henry IV., V, VI, historical 
dramas, by Shakspearo, 145. 

Henry VIII., an historical dra¬ 
ma, by Shakspeare, 145; ext , 
159-63. 

Heroes , by Carlyle, 391. 

Heroic ( The) in Poetry, by Car¬ 
lyle, 394. 

Heptarchy (Anglo-Saxon), 28. 

Hero-icorship, by Carlyle, 394 

Hiawatha , by Longfellow, 513. 

Hillhouse (James), 460. 

Hind {The) and Panther, a con¬ 
troversial poem, by Dryden, 
202-3 ; ext , 209. 

History, by Dryden, 210-11 ; 
by Crabbe, 327. 

Historical Disquisition on India, 
by Robertson, 279. 

History of America , by Robert¬ 
son, 278; ext., 279-80. 

Histoi'y of Animated Nature, by 
Goldsmith, 261. 

History of Brazil, by Southey, 

oop; 

ooO. 

History of Charles V., by Rob¬ 
ertson, 278. 

History of England , by Lingard, 
355; ext., 357 ; —, by Macau¬ 
lay, 375; ext., 375-6. 

History ( Child's) of England , 
by Dickens, 388. 

History ( Constitutional ) of Eng¬ 
land, by Ha-llam, 371. 

History of Frederick the Great, 
by Carlyle, 394; ext., 394-5. 

History of Great Britain, by 
Hume, 268-9; ext., 269-71. 

History of Ireland , by Moore, 
362. 


History of John Bull and Brother 
Jonathan, by Paulding, 489. 

History of my Religious Opin¬ 
ions, by Dr. Newman, 397. 

Histoi'y of New Hampshire, by 
Belknap, 435. 

History of New York , by Knick¬ 
erbocker (Washington Irv¬ 
ing), 484; ext., 486-8. 

History of Philip II., by Pres¬ 
cott, 481. 

History of Scotland, by Robert¬ 
son, 278-80; —, by Scott, 317. 

History of South Carolina, by 
Ramsay, 436. 

History of Spanish Literature, 
by Ticknor, 500. 

History of the American Navy, 
by Cooper, 472. 

History of the American Revolu¬ 
tion, by Ramsay, 436. 

History of the Decline and Fall 
of the Roman Empire , by 
Gibbon, 281; ext., 283-6. 

History of the Peninsular War, 
by Southey, 335. 

History of Ihe Protestant Refor¬ 
mation, by Abp. Spalding, 
502. 

History of the United States, by 
Bancroft, 510; ext., 511- 2. 

Hohenlinden, an ode, by Camp¬ 
bell, 338. 

Homer, translated by Cowper, 
292 ; Iliad of —, by Pope, 
223, 228; by Bryant, 507. 

Honeysuckle (The Wild), by 
Freneau, 452. 

Hope (Pleasures of), by Camp¬ 
bell, 338. 

Hope (Memory and), an alle¬ 
gory, by Paulding, 491-5. 

Ilopkinson (Francis), 431-2; 
spec., 432-5. 

Hours of Idleness , by Byron, 
304. 

House of Fame, an allegorical 
poem, by Chaucer, 85. 

How to be Happy, by Mrs 
Sigourney, 477. 


INDEX. 529 


Hudibras, by S. Butler, 196-7 ; 
ext., 198/201. 

Humanity (The. True), by Au¬ 
brey de Yere, 407, 409. 

Hume (David), 266-9: spec., 
269-71. 

Humor, by S. Smith, 344-6. 
Huntingdon (Henry of), 70. 
Hymn of the City , by Bryant, 
507. 

Hyperion , a romance, by Long¬ 
fellow, 513. 

I. 

Idler (The), a periodical, 272. 
Idylls of the King , by Tennyson, 
402-4. 

II Penseroso , an ode, by Milton, 
180. 

Iliad (The), translation by 
Pope, 223, 228; by Cowper, 
292; by Bryant, 507. 
Immortality, an ode, by Words¬ 
worth, 349-50. 

In Memoriam, by Tennyson, 

401. 

India, by Robertson, 279. 

Indian (An) at the Grave of his 
Fathers, by Bryant, 506. 
Indian (The) Burying Ground, 
by Freneau, 451. 

Indian (The) Emperor, a play, 
by Dry den, 201. 

Indian (The) Student, by Fre¬ 
neau, 45 L 

Inscription for an entrance into 
a Wood, by Bryant, 505. 
Ireland, her literary preemi¬ 
nence for more than two cen¬ 
turies, 35. 

Irene, a tragedy, by Johnson, 
271. 

Irish Melodies, by Moore, 360-1; 
ext., 364-7. 

Irving (Washington) 483-6; 
spec., 486-7; his opinion of 
Bryant’s writings, 507. 

Italy, a poem, by Rogers, 368. 

45 


Ivanhoe, a novel, by Scott, 316 ; 
ext., 319-21. 

Ivry, a lyric poem, by Macau¬ 
lay, 374. 

J. 

Jane Talbot , a novel, by Brown, 
456. 

Jay (John), 445-6; spec.,446-7. 

Jefferson (Thomas), 410-2; 
spec., 442-5. 

Jeffrey (Lord), 350-2; spec., 
352-4 ; his opinion of Byron’s 
writings, 306. 

Jesuits (Persecution of the) in 
England, by Hume, 269-70. 

Joan of Arc, an epic poem, by 
Southey, 334 ; ext., 337-8. 

John (King), a tragedy, by 
Shakspeare, 145 ; ext , 152-6. 

John Gilpin, a ballad, by Cow¬ 
per, 292, 291, 301. 

Johnson (Samuel), 271-5; spec., 
275-8 ; his opinion of Pope’s 
Homer, 223; of Pope’s filial 
piety, 224 ; of Swift’s poetry, 
231; of Thomson, 236 ; of 
Gray’s Epistles, 254; of Gold¬ 
smith, 262. 

Jonson (Ben), 168-70; spec., 
170-4 ; on Southwell, 126 ; 
on Shakspeare, 171. 

Journal (The) of the Plague, by 
Defoe, 218; ext., 218-20. 

Journey to the Western Islands 
of Scotland, by Johnson, 273. 

Judgment (The), A Vision , by 
Ilillhouse, 460. 

Julius Ccesar , a tragedy, by 
Shakspeare, 145. 


K. 

Kavanagh, a tale, by Long¬ 
fellow, 513. 

Kegs (Battle of the), a ballad, 
by Hopkinson, 431, 432-5. 



530 


INDEX. 


Kenrick (Archbishop, 1797— 
1863), an eminent American 
divine, 554. 

Kent (Chancellor, 1763-1847), 
his opinion of Hallam’s Lit¬ 
erature , 371. 

Knighthood in the Lists, by 
Scott, 319-21. 

Kenilworth, a novel, by Scott, 
316. 

Key into the Language of Amer¬ 
ica, by Roger Williams, 418. 

Konigsmark , a novel, by Pauld¬ 
ing, 490. 

L. 

Lady (The) of the Lake , a ro¬ 
mantic poem, by Scott, 315 ; 
ext., 318. 

Lafayette (Oration on), by Hill- 
house, 460. 

Lake Poets, 329. 

Lalla Rookh, a romantic poem, 
by Moore, 361. 

KAllegro, an ode, by Milton, 
180. 

Lanfranc (Abp.), 66-7. 

Last (The) of the Mohicans, a 
novel, by Cooper, 472. 

Latin language, its preserva¬ 
tion, .58. 

Laws of the Lilliputians, by 
Swift, 234. 

Lay ( The) of the Last Minstrel, 
a romantic poem, by Scott, 
315. 

Lay (The) Treacher, by Dennie, 
455. 

Lay of the Scotch Fiddle , by 
Paulding, 490. 

Lay Sermons, by Coleridge, 329. 

Layamon, 71 ; spec., 72. 

Lays of Ancient Rome, by Ma¬ 
caulay, 374. 

Lear (King), a tragedy, by 
Shakspeare, 145. 

Learning (Modern), a satire, by 
Hopldnson, 431, 432. 


Lectures, by. Card. Wiseman— 
on the Arts of Design and of 
Production, the Highways of 
Commerce , Science and Reli¬ 
gion, 381. 

Lectures on Shakspeare, by Col¬ 
eridge, 329. 

Lectures on the English Hu¬ 
morists of the ISth Century 
and the Four Georges, by 
Thackeray, 379; ext., 380-1. 

Legend (The Beautiful), by 
Longfellow, 517-20. 

Legend (The Golden), by Long¬ 
fellow, 513. 

Legends of the Conquests of 
Spain, by Irving, 485. 

Leo X., his Life by Roscoe, 311; 
diversity of opinion on his 
character, 313-4. 

Leo XII., his vindication of 
Lingard, 356. 

Letter to Lady More, by Sir 
T. More, 104. 

Letters aiid Speeches of Crom¬ 
well, by Carlyle, 394. 

Letters of a Tn'aveller, by 
Bryant, 508. 

Letters of the British Spy, studies 
of eloquence, by Wirt, 457. 

Letters on a Regicide Peace, by 
Burke, 288. 

Letters to Mothers, — to my 
Pupils, — to Young Ladies, 
by Mrs. Sigourney, 477. 

Libraries (Ancient), 60. 

"Library (The), a poem, by 
Crabbe, 325; ext., 327. 

Life (Human), a poem, by 
Rogers, 368. 

Life of Bunyan, by Southey, 335. 

Life of Byron . by T. Moore, 362. 

Life of Columbus, by Irving, 484, 

Life of Cowper, by Southey, 336. 

Life of Franklin , by Spark, 498. 

Life of Goldsmith, by Irving, 
485. 

Life of Governor Morris, by 
Spark, 498. 


INDEX. 531 


Life of S. Johnson, by Boswell, 
273. 

Life of Leo X., by Roscoe, 311 ; 
ext., 312-4. 

Life of Lorenzo de Medici, by 
Roscoe, 311. 

Life of Napoleon, by Scott, 317. 

Life of Nelson , by Southey, 335. 

Life.of Patrick Henry, by Wirt, 
457. 

Life of Savage , by Johnson, 271. 

Life of Schiller, by Carlyle, 393. 

Life of Sheridan, b} r Moore, 362. 

Life of Washington, by Ram¬ 
say, 436;—by Marshall, 459 ; 
—by Irving, 485 ;—by J. 
Sparks, 498. 

Life of D. Webster (Remarks on 
the), by Ticknor, 500. 

Life of Wesley, by Southey, 335. 

Lingard (John), 354-7 ; spec., 
357-60; on St. Aldhelm, 40. 

Lionel Lincoln , a novel, by 
Cooper, 472. 

Literature, influence of the 

Catholic Church on -, see 

Church ; influence of the Re¬ 
formation on -, see Re¬ 
formation ; American -, 

see. American; English-, 

see English. 

Literature of Europe, by Hal- 
lam, 371 ; opinion of Chan¬ 
cellor Kent, 371; of Edinb. 
Review, 371. 

Literature {Spanish), by Tick¬ 
nor, 500. 

Little Dorrit, a novel, by 
Dickens, 388. 

Lives of British Admirals, by 
Southey, 335. 

Lives of the Poets, by Johnson, 
273. 

Locksley Hall, a poem, by Ten¬ 
nyson, 401. 

Logan, (James), 420. 

Longfellow (Henry Wads¬ 
worth), 512-5; spec., 515-20. 

Lord's Prayer, in Anglo-Saxon, 
32. 


Loss and Gain, a story, by Dr. 
Newman, 397. 

Love of Fame, by Young, 249. 

Lycidas, a monody, by Milton, 
180. 

Lydgate (John), 98; spec , 99. 

Lyrical Ballads, by Words¬ 
worth, 346. 

M. 

Macaulay (Thomas Babington) 
373-5; spec., 375-7; his >, n- 
ion of Goldsmith, 262; of 
Byron, 306. 

Macbeth, by Shakspeare, 146. 

McFingal, a burlesque, by 
Trumbull, 449-50. 

Mac-Flecknoe, a satire, by Dry- 
den, 202. 

Madison (James), 447-8. 

Madoc, an epic poem, by Sou¬ 
they, 334. 

Mahomet and his Successors, by 
Irving, 485. 

Malmesbury ( William of), 70; 
his opinion of St. Aldhelm, 
40. 

Man (The) of Ninety, by Fre¬ 
neau, 451. 

Mandeville (Sir John), 81 ; 
spec., 82-4. 

Mannyng (Robert), 76. 

Manual of Parliamentary Prac¬ 
tice, by Jefferson, 412. 

Marie Antoinette, by Burke, 
290-1. 

Marmion, a romantic poem, by 
Scott, 315. 

Marshall (John), 458-9. 

Martin Chuzzlewit, a novel, by 
Dickens, 388. 

Martyrdom of St. Pancratius, 
by Card. Wiseman, 384. 

Mary Magdalen's Funeral 
Tears, by Southwell, 126, 
131. 

Mather (Cotton, 1663-1728), 
his Epitaph of Wiggles worth, 
419. 




532 


INDEX. 


Maud, a poem, by Tennyson, 
402. 

May to April, by Freneau, 
451-2. 

Meat out of the Eater, by Wig- 
glesworth, 418. 

Melodies (Irish), by Moore, 
360-1; ext., 364-7. 

Memoirs (The) of Captain Rock, 
by Moore, 362. 

Memoirs of Ledyard, by Spark, 
498. 

Memoriam (In), by Tennyson, 
401 ; ext., 404-5. 

Memory (The Pleasures of), by 
Rogers, 368, 369-70. 

Memory and Hope, an allegory, 
by Paulding, 491-5. 

Method (Advantage of), by 
Coleridge, 331; Scholastic 
-, 64. 

Mervyn , a novel, by Brown, 
456. 

Mexico (Conquest of), by Pres¬ 
cott, 480, ext., 482-3. 

Middle Ages, by Hallam, 370. 

Miles (Standish ), by Longfel¬ 
low, 513. 

Milton (John), 179-85; spec., 
185-96. 

Mind (Diseases of the), a satire, 
by Hopkinson, 431. 

Minstrel (The), a didactic poem, 
by Beattie, 301 ; ext., 302-4. 

Mirror for Magistrates, by 
Sack vi lie, 139. 

Miscellanea, bv Abp. Spalding, 
502. 

Miscellanies (Biographical and 
Critical), by Prescott, 481. 

Mode of Conducting a Quarrel, 
a satire, by Hopkinson, 431. 

Molmutine Laws, 36. 

Monaldi, a story, by Hillhouse, 
461. 

Monasteries and monks, in con¬ 
nection with literature, 59- 
60; their vindication, by 
Schlegel, 60. 


Monastery (The), a novel, by 
Scott, 316. 

Monmouth (Geoffrey of), 71. 

Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse, 
by Mrs. Sigourney, 477. 

More (Sir Thomas), 101-3; 
spec., 104-6. 

Morituri Salutamus , a poem, 
by Longfellow, 513. 

Morte d'Arthur, a poem, by 
Tennyson, 402-3. 

Mother Hubbard's Tale, by 
Spenser, 133. 


N. 

Napoleon (Life of), by Scott, 
317. 

Nelson (Life- of), by Southey, 
335. 

Newcomes (The), a novel, by 
Thackeray, 379. 

Newman (Ur. John Henry), 
395-8 ; spec , 398-400; on 
Universities, 63. 

Newsletter (Boston Weekly), the 
first newspaper in America, 
415. 

Nicholas Nickleby, a novel, by 
Dickens, 387. 

Night Thoughts, 249, 251-4. 

Norman-French, 55. 

Normans (The), their character, 
54; influence in England, 55. 

North American Review, see 
Review. 

Novels and Novel-reading, 322- 
324; novels of Scott, 317; 
dangers from the sensational 
novel, 454. 


O. 


Ocean (Apostrophe to the) by 
Byron, 307-9. 

Ode' on Eton College, by Gray, 


Ode on Solitude, by Pope, 222, 
225. 


INDEX. 


533 


Ode on the Nativity, by Milton, 
179. 

Ode on the. Passions, by Collins, 
242,243-6. 

Odes {Pindaric), by Cowlev, 
175; ext., 176. 

Odes of Anacreon, by Moore, 
360. 


Ode to Evening, by Collins, 242, 
247—8. 

Ode to Fear, by Collins, 243. 
Ode to Mount Blanc, by Cole¬ 
ridge, 329. 

Ode to St. Cecilia, by Dryden, 
203, 206-8. 

Ode to Superstition, by Rogers, 
368 


Old Curiosity Shop, a novel, by 
Dickens, 387. 

Old English Period, 73-9. 
Oliver Twist, a novel, by Dick¬ 
ens, 387. 

Opus Mojus, by Roger Bacon, 
78. 


Ormond, a novel, by Brown, 
456. 


Osburga, mother of Alfred the 
Great, awakes in his mind a 
desire for learning, 47. 

Othello, a tragedy, by Shak- 
speare, 145. 

Otis (James), 423-4. 

Our Mutual Friend, a tale, by 
Dickens, 388. 

Outremer, by Longfellow, 513. 

Ovid's Metamorphoses, by San- 
dys, 415; ext., 416. 


P. 

Paradise Lost, by Milton, 182; 
ext., 185-94. 

Paradise Regained, by Milton, 
182, 184 

Parallel between Pope and 
Dryden, by Johnson, 276-7. 
Paraphrase, by Caedmon, 38. 
Parish {The) Register, a poem, 
by Crabbe, 326. 

45* 


Parody on a Celebrated Letter , 
a satire, by Moore, 360. 
Pastorals, by Pope, 223. 
Pathfinder {The), a novel, by 
Cooper, 472. 

Paulding (James K.), 459-91; 
spec., 491-4. 

Peace (Treaty of) in 1782, by 
Bancroft, 511-12. 

Pelasgic Race, 25. 

Pendennis, a novel, by Thacke¬ 
ray, 379. 

Pericles, Prince of Tyre, a 
tragedy, by Shakspeare, 144. 
Persecution of the Jesuits in 
England, by Hume, 269-70. 
Pickwick Papers , by Dickens, 
387. 

Pilot {The), a novel, by Coooer, 
472. 

Pindaric Odes, by Cowley, 175; 
ext , 176. 

Pinkney (William, 1764-1822), 
an eminent American law¬ 
yer, 422. 

Pioneers {The), a novel, by 
Cooper, 471. 

Pirate {The), a novel, by Scott, 
316. 

Pleasures ( The) of Hope, by 
Campbell, 338. 

Pleasures ( The) of Memory, by 
Rogers, 368, 369-70. 
Pocahontas, a poem, by Mrs. 
Sigourney, 477. 

Poetry {The Progress of), by 
Gray, 255. 

Polyolbion, by Drayton, 71, 
note. 

Pope (Alexander), 222-4; spec., 
225-9; compared with Dry¬ 
den by Johnson, 276-7 ; his 
works edited by Roscoe, 312. 
Popes, their zeal for literature, 
59, for civilization, 119; 
their eminence, 312. 

Portfolio {The), by Dennie, 455. 
Portrait of Frederick the Great, 
by Carlyle, 394-5. 


534 


INDEX. 


Portrait of lied Jacket, by Hal- 
leck, 495. 

Potomac (Passage of the) 
through the Blue Ridge, by 
Jefferson, 442-3. 

Prairie (The), a novel, by 
Cooper, 472. 

Preacher (The Tillage), by 
Goldsmith, 263-4. 

Prescott (William H.), 480-2 ; 
spec., 482-3; compared with 
Irving, 485; Life of —, by 
Ticknor, 500. 

Pretty Story, an allegory, by 
Ilopkinson, 431. 

Pride, by Pope, 225-7. 

Princess (The), a poem, by Ten¬ 
nyson, 402. 

Printing-press, its influence on 
the spreading of literature, 
121 . 

Prisoner (The) of Chilton , a 
story in verse, by Byron, 305. 

Proclamation of Henry 111., 
74-5 ; its philological impor¬ 
tance, 73. 

Prologue on the Opening of the 
Drury Lane Theatre, by John¬ 
son, 272, 277-8. 

Prologue to In Memoriam, 404-5. 

Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, 
88-94. 

Prosody (Latin), by Otis, 423. 

Psalm (A) of Life, by Long¬ 
fellow, 515-6. 

Psalms ( The), the first book pub¬ 
lished in British America,414. 

Puritan ( The) and his Daughter, 
by Paulding, 490. 

Puritans (The) of New’ Eng¬ 
land, 413. 

Q. 

Quadrivium, 62. 

Qualification for Government, 
by Burke, 290. 

Quentin Durward, a novel, by 
Scott, 316. 


R. 

Ralph Roister Doister, the ear¬ 
liest English Comedy, 143. 

Rambler (The), a periodical, 
272. 

Ramsay (David), 436. 

Rasselas, by Johnson, 272. 

Raven (The Dying), a poem, by 
R. H. Dana, Sen., 504. 

Reason but an Aid to Faith, by 
Dry den, 204-5. 

Recollections of the Last Four 
Popes, by Card. Wiseman, 
383. 

Red Jacket , a portrait, by Hal- 
leck, 495. 

Red (The) River, a novel, by 
Cooper, 472. 

Reed (Henry, 1808-1854), on 
Shakspeare’s religious spirit, 
147. 

Reflections on the Revolution in 
France, by Burke, 287-8, 
290-11. 

Reformation (The Protestant), 
its influence on literature in 
general, 113, fine arts, 114, 
philosophy, 115, social order, 
116, civil and religious lib¬ 
erty, 117. 

Reformation (History of the), 
by Abp Spalding, 502. 

Register (The American), by 
Brown, 456. 

Register (Annual), 288. 

Register (The Parish), a poem, 
by Crabbe, 326. 

Reign (The) of Ferdinand and 
Isabella, by Prescott, 480. 

Religio Laid, a poem, by Dry- 
den, 202; ext., 204-5. 

Revenge (The), a tragedy, by 
Young, 249. 

Review (The American), first 
quarterly in the U. S., by 
Walsh, 488. 

Review (Edinburgh), see Edin¬ 
burgh. 


INDEX. 535 


Review (North American ), its 
opinion of Hume’s History, 
268 ; of Carlyle, 393 ; of Mrs. 
Sigourney, 477-8. 

Review (North British ), its 
opinion of Dickens, 388. 

Revolution (The French'), by 
Carlyle, 393. 

Rhode Island, her Charter of 
religious rights, 417. 

Richard III., a tragedy by 
Shakspeare, 145; ext., 150-2. 

Richard III. (Character of) by 
Sir T. More, 105. 

Richard's (Poor) Almanac, by 
Franklin, 426. 

Richardson (1681-1761), char¬ 
acter of his novels, 322. 

Riddles unriddled, by Wiggles- 
worth, 419. 

Rights (Charter of Religious) 
in Rhode Island, 417. 

Rights of America, by Jefferson, 
440. 

Rights of the British Colonies, 
by Otis, 424. 

Rime ( The) of the Ancient Mar¬ 
iner, by Coleridge, 328 ; ext., 
331. 

Robertson (William), 278-9; 
spec., 279-80. 

Robinson Crusoe , by Defoe, 217; 
ext, 220-2. 

Roderic, a poem, by Southey, 
435. 

Rogers (Samuel), 367-9; spec., 
369-70. 

Rokeby, a romantic poem, by 
Scott, 315. 

Romaunt of the Rose, a poem, 
by Chaucer, 85. 

Rome (Church of), see Church. 

Roof (The New), an allegory, 
by Hopkinson, 431. 

Roscoe (William), 311-2; spec., 
312-4. 

Round Table, 197, note. 

Rule Britannia, an ode, by 
Thomson, 241. 


Rush (1745-1813), Eulogy on 
Dr. —, by Ramsay, 436. 
Rutledge (John, 1749-1800), an 
American orator, 422. 


S. 

Sackville (Thomas), 138-40; 
spec , 140-2. 

St. Ronan’s Well , a novel, by 
Scott, 316. 

Salisbury (John of), 69-70. 

Salmagundi , 484, 489. 

Samson Agonistes, by Milton, 
184 ; ext., 194-6. 

Sandys (George), 415-16. 

Sartor Resartus, by Carlyle, 
393-4. 

Saxons, in 2d and 3d century, 
27; settle in Britain, 28; 
Saxon period of Eng. Lit., 
28, 531. See Anglo-Saxons 
and Semi-Saxon. 

Schlegel (Frederick), on the 
preservation of Latin, 58 ; on 
monks, 60 ; on Paradise Lost, 
182; on Robertson, 279; on 
Burke, 288; on Scott, 316. 

Scholars (Oration on the Plea¬ 
sures of the), by Bishop Eng¬ 
land. 

Schoolmaster (The), by As- 
cham, 106. 

Seasons (The), by Thomson, 
235; ext., 237-9. 

Seasons (Sylphs of the), a poem, 
by Hillhouse, 461. 

Sea-side and Fireside, by Long¬ 
fellow, 513. 

Semi-Saxon Period, 54; - 

language, 66 ;—and Anglo- 
Saxon compared, 65. 

Sentimental Journey, by Sterne, 
322. 

Shakspeare (William), 143-8 ; 
spec., 148-64; opinion of 
Johnson, 275; of Coleridge, 
328 ; of Hallam, 372-3, 


536 


INDEX. 


Shaw (Thos. B., 1813-1862), his 
opinion of Milton’s religious 
spirit, 180; of Young, 250. 

Shepherd's (The} Calender , a 
pastoral poem, by Spenser, 132. 

Shortest ( The) Way' with the 
Dissenters, by Defoe, 217. 

Sigourney (Mrs. Lydia Hunt- 
ley), 477-8; spec., 478-80. 

Silliman (Benjamin, 1779-1864), 
a scientist, 454. 

Skeptic (The), a satire, by 
Moore, 362. 

Sketch of a Family, by Mrs. 
Sigourney, 478-80. 

Sketch-Book (The), by Irving, 
484. 

Sketches (Historical), by Dr. 
Newman, 397; ext., 398. 

Sketches by Boz (Dickens), 386. 

Sketches of Switzerland , by 
Cooper, 472. 

Slave-trade, in its relation to 
literature and human pro¬ 
gress, 119. 

Slavonic race, 25. 

Smith (Kev. Sydnev), 342-4; 
344-6. 

Smollett (1721-1771,) character 
of his novels, 322. 

Song (Bugle;, by Tennyson, 
405-6. 

Songs (Sacred), by Moore, 361 ; 
ext , 363-4. 

Sophunisba, a tragedy, by 
Thomson, 236. 

Southey (Robert), 333-6 ; spec., 
336-8. 

Southwell (Robert), 125-7; 
spec., 125-32. 

Spalding (Archbishop), 501-2; 
spec., 503; on the civilizing 
influence of Christian Rome, 
59 ; on the Reformation in 
connection with the tine arts, 
114. 

Sparks (Jared), 498-9. 

Spectator (The), 211-12; ext., 
213-17. 


Spelman (Sir Henry, 1562- 
1641), a celebrated antiqua^, 
his admiration of Alfred the 
Great, 49. 

Spenser (Edmund), 132-5; 
spec., 135-8. 

Spring (Ode On), by Gray, 255. 

Spy (The), a tale, by Cooper, 
471. 

Spy (Letters of the British), 
studies on eloquence, by 
Wirt, 457. 

Sterne (Laurence, 1713-1768.) 
character of his novels, 322. 

Story (Judge, 1779-1845), emi¬ 
nent in jurisprudence, 453. 

Stuart (Death of Mary), by 
Lingard, 357-9. 

Studies (Bacon’s Essay on), ext., 
167-8. 

Surrey, 139, note. 

Swift (Jonathan), 229-31; spec., 
232-5; his torture of soul, by 
Thackeray, 380-1 ; his works 
edited by Scott, 316. 

Syriacoe Horce, by Card. Wise¬ 
man, 381. 

T. 

Tale of a Tub, by Swift, 230. 

Tale (A) of Two Cities , by 
Dickens, 388. 

Tales (Canterbury), by Chaucer, 
85-7; ext.. 88-94. 

Tales and Essays, by R. H. 
Dana, 504. 

Tales in Verse, by Crabbe, 326. 

Tales of a Grandfather , by 
Scott, 317 

Tales of a Traveller, bv Irving, 
484. 

Tales of a Wayside Inn, in verse, 
by Longfellow, 513; ext., 
517-20. 

Tales of my Landlord, by Scott, 
316. 

Tales of the Crusaders, by Scott, 
316. 


INDEX. 53? 


Tales of the Hall , in verse, by 
Crabbe, 826. 

Tales of the Three Wise Men of 
Gotham, by Paulding, 490. 

Tamerlane, see Tirnour. 

Tanner (Bishop, 1674-1735), on 
Bede’s learning, 42. 

Task (The), a descriptive poem, 
by Cowper, 292. 

Tatler (The), 211. 

Tempest (The), a comedy, by 
Shakspeare, 145; ext., 156. 

Tennyson (Alfred), 400-4; 
spec., 403-6. 

Testament of Love, by Chaucer, 
85. 

Thackeray (William M.), 377- 
379 ; spec., 379-81. 

Thalaba, an epic poem, by 
Southey, 334. 

Thanatopsis, a didactic poem, 
by Bryant, 506, 508-10. 

Theodore (Archbishop), sent to 
England, 35. 

Thomson (James), 235-7; spec., 
237-42. 

Ticknor (George). 499-500. 

Timber, by Ben Jonson, 169; 
ext., 174. 

Tirnour, term of his conquests, 
death, by Gibbon, 283-6. 

Tirocinium, a poem on educa¬ 
tion, by Cowper, 292. 

Tour in Ireland, by Card. Wise¬ 
man, 383. 

Tour on the Prairies, by Irving, 
485. 

Toxophilus, by Ascham, 106, 
107-10. 

Tractate on Education , by Mil- 
ton, 180. 

Tragedy (The Divine ,) by Long¬ 
fellow, 513. 

Traveller (The), by Goldsmith, 

261. 

Traveller's Guide, by Paulding, 
490. 

Travels, by Sir John Mande- 
ville, 82-4. 


Travels in Italy, by Addison, 

211 . 

Travels in Search of a Religion, 
by Moore, 362. 

Treaty (The), by Hopkinson, 
431. 

Tristram Shandy, a novel, by 
Sterne, 322. 

Trivium, 62. 

Troilus and Creseide, by Chau¬ 
cer, 85;—a tragedy, by Shak¬ 
speare, 145; ext., 157. 

Troubadours, 56. 

Trouveres, 66. 

Trumbull (John), 448-50. 

Turks (Lectures on the), by Dr. 
Newman, 397. 

Twilight (The), a poem, by 
Paulding, 495. 

Twopenny Post bag, a satire, by 
Moore, 360. 

U. 

Udas (Nicholas, 1506-1564), 
author of Ralph Roister Dois - 
ter, 143. 

Universities, 63-5. 

Universities (Lectures on), by 
Dr. Newman, 397. 

University (Idea of a), by Dr. 
Newman, 397 ; ext., 398-400. 

Utopia, by Sir T. More, 102. 

y. 

Vanity Fair, a novel, by Thack¬ 
eray, 378; ext., 379-80. 

Vanity (The) of Human Wishes, 
a satire, by Johnson, 271. 

Vere (Aubrey de), 407-9; spec., 
409-12; on Shakspeare’s rev¬ 
erence for religion, 147. 

Verses on Various Occasions 
by Dr. Newman, 397. 

Vicar (The) of Wakefield , a 
novel, by Goldsmith, 261. 

Vieio of Europe during the Mid¬ 
dle Ages, by Hall am, 370. 



538 


INDEX. 


View of ihe State of Ireland, by 
Spenser, 134. 

Village ( The), a poem, by 
Crabbe, 325. 

Vindication (A ), by Lingard, 
355. 

Vindication ( A) of Natural So¬ 
ciety, by Burke, 286. 

Virgil, translated by Dryden, 
203 ; ext., 209. 

Virgin (Hymn to the), by 
Scott, 318. 

Virginia (Notes on), by Jeffer¬ 
son, 442-3. 

Virginia (University of), 441. 
Vision of Don Roderic, a poem, 
by Scott, 315. 

Vision of Mirza, by Addison, 
213. 

Voyages (Life and) of Columbus, 
by Irving, 484. 

Voyages of the Companions of 
Columbus, by Irving, 484. 

W. 

Wace (Master), 71. 

Wallenstein (Schiller’s), partly 
translated by Coleridge, 329. 
Walsh (Robert), 488-9. 

Warton (Thomas, 1729-1790), 
on Chaucer, 87 ; Lydgate, 99. 
Washington ( Life of), by Mar¬ 
shall, 459, Ramsay, 436, Irv¬ 
ing, 485, Sparks, 498; his 
character, by Jefferson, 443- 
5; Oration on his Character, 
by Bp. England, 465. 

Wat Tyler, a drama, by Southey, 

Water ( The) Witch , a novel, by 
Cooper, 472. 

Waterfowl ( To a ), by Bryant, 
506. 

Waterloo (Battle of), by Thack¬ 
eray, 379-80. 

Waverly, a novel, by Scott, 316. 
Webster (Daniel), 466-9 ; spec , 

469-71 ; criticism on-, by 

Abp. Spalding, 503. 


Westward Ho! a novel, by 
Paulding, 490. 

Whitewashing, a satire, by Hop- 
kinson, 431. 

Whitney (Prof. W. D., T827- 

-,) an eminent American 

linguist, 454. 

Wieland, a novel, by Brown, 
456. 

Wigglesworth (Michael), 418- 
419 ; spec., 419. 

Williams (Roger), 416-18. 

Wing and Wing , a novel, by 
Cooper, 472. 

Winter, by Thomson, 237-9. 

Wirt (William), 457-8. 

Wiseman (Cardinal), 381-4; 
spec., 3S4-6; on Shakspeare, 
146; Lingard, 357; Longfel¬ 
low, 514. 

Wit, by S. Smith, 344-6. 

Wolf erf’s Roost , by Irving, 485. 

Wolsey (Cardinal), his fall, 
vices, and virtues, by Shak¬ 
speare, 159-63 

Woods (Autumn), by Bryant, 
506. 

Wordsworth (William), 346-9; 
spec., 349-50. 

Workhouse, by Crabbe, 326-7. 

World (The Catholic), a maga¬ 
zine, on Aubrey do Vere’s 
Irish Odes , 408. 

Wrongs of Africa, a poem, by 
Roscoe, 311, 


Y. 

Ye Mariners of England , an 
ode, by Campbell, 338, 440-1. 
Young (Edward), 248-51; spec., 
251-4. 

Z. 

Zanga, the hero in Young’s 
Revenge, 249. 

Zizendorf, a - poem, by Mrs. 
Sigourney, 477. 


QUESTIONS 

TO 

Jenkins’s Handbook of English Literature. 


PART I. 

BRITISH LITERATURE. 

FIRST PERIOD. 

Old Saxon, or Anglo-Saxon Period, 449-1060. 

PAGE. 

25-26 The most ancient inhabitants of Britain. 

What races inhabited Europe at the dawn of the Christian 
era ? How were the Celts denominated in France, Britain, 
Ireland, and Spain ? What Roman commander first in¬ 
vaded Britain? when? with what success? When did 
the Romans renew the war, and succeed in incorporating 
part of Britain into the empire? In what state were the 
Britons at that time? When and by whom were they 
brought to the light of faith ? What proofs have we that 
a regular ecclesiastical hierarchy existed in Britain before 
the close of the third century? 

27 The primitive Saxons. 

Who were the Saxons? What country did they occupy 
about the middle of the 2d century ? To what nations had 
their name become common by the middle of the fourth 
century, and into what tribes were they divided ? On 
what coasts did they carry on their depredations? What 
particular officer was appointed to check their incursions ? 

27-28 Arrival of Hengist and Horsa. 

In what year, and under what leaders did the Anglo-Saxons 
effect their first settlement on the coast of Britain ? What 
kingdom did they first found? in what year? What 
other kingdoms were successively formed by new bands of 

539 




QUESTIONS TO 


540 

PAGE. 

invaders? Wlien and by whom were the several kingdoms 
of the Anglo-Saxon Heptarchy absorbed into one mon¬ 
archy? How far does the Old Saxon Period of British 
literature extend? How may it be subdivided? 

28- 29 The Anglo-Saxons. 

What was the barbarity of the Anglo-Saxons? How did 
they treat the native inhabitants of Britain ? To whom 
did"the Britons, in their distress, apply for assistance? 

29- 30 Origin of the English Language. 

What languages were spoken by the aboriginal inhabitants 
of Britain ? Did the Roman occupation of Britain effect 
any material change in the speech of the people? What 
language took the place of the Celtic in Britain, after the 
Anglo-Saxon invasion ? In our modern English, what is 
the proportion of Anglo-Saxon derivatives ? 

30- 31 Arrival of St. Augustine in England. 

Until what time are the Anglo-Saxons supposed to have con¬ 
tinued in a state of barbarism ? Under what circumstances 
did St. Gregory first conceive the design of rescuing the 
Anglo-Saxons from the errors of paganism ? What did 
St. Augustine and the other missionaries teach the Anglo- 
Saxons ? 

31 Speech of an Anglo-Saxon thane. 

When did Edwin, king of Northumbria, become a Christian? 
To what effect did one of his counsellors speak on that 
occasion ? 


The Lord’s prayer in Saxon. 

What specimen of the earliest form of Saxon prose have wo 
from the pen of iEadfrid? When is it said to have been 
written ? 

32 Characteristics of Anglo-Saxon Poetry. 

What are the principal characteristics of Anglo -Saxon poetry ? 
Was rhyme an essential component of it? To what in¬ 
strument was it designed to be sung? 

33-34 Learning of the Anglo-Saxons. 

Through what medium did the early Anglo Saxon writers 
obtain their chief successes? Were the Saxon scholars 
always guided by a correct taste in the pursuit of eloquence 


TAGE. 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


541 


and poetry ? How did they add to the natural difficulty of 
the Latin metre? Give an instance of this. What were 
these rhyming Latin verses called? why? What is said 
of some of these. rhyming Latin hymns?—the Stabat 
Mater?—the Dies iroe ? In England, what was the Leo¬ 
nine verse principally used for? Whence did the Saxon 
student derive his acquaintance with logic? What study 
was considered of equal importance with logic? what 
made it more difficult of attainment at that time ? What 
is said of the obstacles met by the Saxon students in the 
pursuit of learning ? How far did they succeed in over¬ 
coming these obstacles ? 


35 The most distinguished Men of this Period. 

What distinguished foreigners and scholars came to England 
in 668 ? What benefit did the country derive from their 
arrival ? Which of the native Saxons attained the highest 
literary reputation in the 7th, 8th, and 9th centuries ? 

35-36 Literature of Ireland. 

What is said of Ireland ? Who resorted to her schools ? 
Where are now found the purest remains of the ancient 
Celtic? Of what do the metrical relics of the Irish-Gaelic 
language consist ? What is said of the prose chronicles 
preserved in Ireland ? 


36-37 St. Gildas. 

Who ranks as the first British historian ? Where did Gildas 
receive his early education ? What is said of the monas¬ 
tery of St. Iltutus? What did Gildas write or translate? 
By what is he principally known ? Of what does his 
Epistola treat? Where and when did he write this in¬ 
vective ? 

38 CAEDMON. 

With what name does the catologue of writers in the Anglo- 
Saxon language begin ? Who was Caedmon, and what has 
he been styled ? What does Bede tell us of Caedmon ? 

39-41 St. Aldhelm. 

What particulars are mentioned of the life of St. Aldhelm? 
What is said of his learning by Dr. Henry?—Camden?— 
Bede ?—King Alfred ? What means did he use to instruct 
and civilize his barbarous countrymen? W'hat do Wil¬ 
liam of Malmesbury and Lingard say of his writings? 
What are his chief surviving works ? 

46 


542 


QUESTIONS TO 


PAGE. 

41-43 Bede. 

What particulars of his own life has Bede transmitted to us ?' 
How far did he excel in learning? What is said of his 
Ecclesiastical History? How is the scene of his last hours 
described by one of his disciples ? 

44-46 Alcuin. 

What is said of Alcuin’s early life and education ? When 
and how was he induced to take up his residence in France ? 
How did he promote education in that country? Where 
did he spend the last years of his life ? In what various 
departments did he exercise his pen? What is Feller’s 
judgment on Alcuin? 

47-49 Alfred the Great. 

What is said of the life of Alfred the Great previous to his 
being called to the throne? How did Alfred crown his 
victories over the Danes ? Who was his counsellor in his 
efforts for the improvement of education? What was his 
will in reference to the children of freemen? What do 
his writings comprise ? In what manner did he regulate 
his time ? What does Henry Spelman say of him ? How 
may his services to his country and his personal qualities 
be summed up ? 

60-51 JElfric. 

Who was iElfric? What did he write ? Why was he sur- 
named the Grammarian ? W’hat did he avoid in his style ? 

63 Other Writings.—General Characteristics. 

Have all the writings of the First Period been mentioned ? 
Have they all been preserved? Of how many Anglo- 
Saxon authors do there remain entire or fragmentary 
works? What is the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle? What 
was the aim of the writers of this Period ? 


SECOND PERIOD. 

Semi-Saxon, or Transition Period, 1066-1250. 

54-55 The Normans. 

What rank did the Normans of this epoch occupy in Europe ? 
To what cause did they owe their present civilization ? 
What followed them into England? 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


543 


PAGE. 

55 The Norman Dynasty. 

Who claimed the throne of England at the death of Edward 
the Confessor? Where were the rival claims decided? 
What was built in commemoration of the battle of Hast¬ 
ings ? Dow did the natives bear the Norman yoke ? 

Influence of the Norman-French on the Mother 
•55-56 Tongue. 

What measures were resorted to for extirpating the Saxon 
language ? What was the consequence of this policy ? 

56 The Trouveres and the Troubadours. 

What were the minstrels of the North of France called? 
what, those of the South ? What is the poetry of the 
Trouveres said to have been ? what, that of the Trouba¬ 
dours ? 

56-57 The Semi-Saxon Language. 

What language sprung up from the Saxon ? In what are 
the changes said to have consisted ? 

57 The Crusades. 

Why does this Period present little of merely literary inter¬ 
est ? What was the object of the Crusades ? What, their 
motives and influence ? 

Effects of the preservation of the Latin Lan- 

58- 59 GUAGE. 

What made the use of a common idiom indispensable in 
Europe, during the middle ages? What was that common 
idiom ? What have been the results of the adoption and 
use of the Latin by the Church ? What prevented the 
Latin from being lost? To what did the popes of the 
middle ages show themselves attentive ? 

59- 60 The Monasteries. 

Where and by whom was history written in England during 
the middle ages ? What is the value of the Saxon Chroni¬ 
cle ? Were the monks competent to write history ? 

60- 61 Ancient Libraries. 

How were libraries gotten up in monasteries? What works 
did the library at York contain in Alcuin’s time? How 
many were there in that of Croyland ?—of Oxford in 1309? 
What was the difficulty of procuring books ? 


544 


QUESTIONS TO 


PAGE. 

61-62 Curriculum of a Liberal Education. 

What did the curriculum of a liberal education comprise ? 
In what esteem were the Trivium and the Quadrivium 
held? From whose works did the students derive their 
knowledge ? Where were the higher branches of theology, 
medicine, and law studied ? 

63- 64 Academical Degrees. 

What did the University comprise, and what were the de¬ 
grees in each Faculty ? By what steps was the Doctor’s 
degree of theology reached in the University of Paris? 
To whom were the degrees conferred ? 

64 The Scholastic Method. 

What is the scholastic method ? What are its main features ? 
What is said of the soundness of the scholastic method ? 

64- 65 Privileges of the Universities. 

When did the Universities of Paris and Oxford begin to 
subsist as corporations? Of what did the Universities 
become possessed in the course of time ? What shows the 
simplicity and poverty of these corporations ? 

State of the English Language in the early part 

65- 66 of the 13th Century. 

What was the state of the English language, in 1216 ? In 
what did the Semi-Saxon differ from the pure Saxon ? Can 
the commencement of the English language be easily de¬ 
termined ? How was the Anglo-Saxon converted into 
English ? 

66- 67 Lanfranc. 

By whom were most productions of the 11th and 12th centu¬ 
ries composed ? Who were the most distinguished of these 
authors? What is said in common of Lanfranc and St. 
Anselm ? W T here did Lanfranc successively teach ? To 
what dignity was he raised ? What do his writings show ? 
What are his chief surviving works ? 

67- 69 St. Anselm. 

Under what circumstances did Anselm become archbishop of 
Canterbury ? What was the extent of his learning ? Of 
what does he treat in his Monologium ?—Proslogium ? 
What is said of his ascetic works ?—letters ? To what did 
he contribute ? 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


545 


PAGE. 

69-70 John of Salisbury. 

What was John of Salisbury distinguished for? Under 
whom and how long did he study ? What offices did he 
hold ? What is the theme of his Polycraticus ?—Metalo- 
gicus ? Of what else is he the author ? What are the 
merits and defects of John of Salisbury as a writer? 


70-71 The Historians and Rhyming Chroniclers. 

What is said of the historians and chroniclers who flourished 
during this period? Were the first literary attempts in 
the vernacular, original productions ? What did William 
of Malmesbury write ? What did Henry of Hunting¬ 
don write ? after whose model ? in what stjde ? In what 
does he delight ? Of what History is Geoffrey of Mon¬ 
mouth the author ? Who was Wace ? what did be write ? 
Who was Layamon ? what did he write ? 


THIRD PERIOD. 

Old English, or early English Period, 1250 - 1350 . 

73 Old English. 

What caused the name of Old English to be assigned to this 
period ? What is the oldest extant specimen of Old Eng¬ 
lish ? Whence arises the literary importance of the Proc¬ 
lamation issued by Henry III. ? 


75-77 Rhyming Chroniclers. 

Of what is Robert of Gloucester the author? What is 
said of his History of England, with reference to the sub¬ 
stance and the form ? Who was Robert Mannyng, and 
of what history is he the author? What did he translate 
into English ? In what language were many of the Minor 
Poems of this period written ? How may they be divided ? 


77-78 Roger Bacon. 

Who was Roger Bacon ? What was his proficiency in 
learning? What is he called, and why ? Of what did he 
describe the nature and effects? What does he propound 
in Opus Majus? With whom is he entitled to rank ? 


46 * 


546 


QUESTIONS TO 


FOURTH PERIOD. 

The Middle English Period, 1350 - 1580 . 


79- 80 Further changes in the form of the language. 

How far does the new stage of language, termed the Middle 
English, extend ? What became of the Anglo Saxon rules 
for the gender of substantives? of the semi-Saxon infini¬ 
tive in en? What is said of words of French origin? 
of the orthography and quantity of English words ? 

80- SI Growing importance of literature. 

In what lies the chief literary interest of this period? How 
did the English gradually supplant the Latin and the 
French ? What gave a new impulse to the intellect of the 
nation, in 1474? Was the old curriculum of studies still 
considered sufficient ? 

81- 82 Sir John Mandeville. 

Who was Sir John Mandeville? How long and through 
what countries did he travel ? In what languages did he 
write an account of his Travels? Were his narratives 
popular? What is the literary merit of Mandeville’s 
Travels ? 

84-87 Geoffrey Chaucer. 

Who was Chaucer? What is said of his native style?— 
early pieces ? Into what kinds may his works be divided ? 
What is said of Chaucer’s Romaunt of the Rose?—The 
House of Fame?—Troilus andCreseide?—The Flower and 
the Leaf?—A. B. C. ? What is his most elaborate produc¬ 
tion in prose? What is the Astrolabie? What is the 
work on which Chaucer’s fame chiefly rests? What is the 
plan of the Canterbury Tales? Who are the chief per¬ 
sonages introduced by the poet? How does Chaucer com¬ 
pare with his predecessors? In what does he excel? 
What caused him bitter regrets in his last hours ? 

97- 98 John Gower. 

Who was John Gower ? What is said of the style and tone 
of his writings ? Of what does his principal work consist? 

98- 99 John Lydgate. 

Who was John Lydgate ? How far did he excel in learning? 
What subjects do his poems embrace? What are his prin¬ 
cipal pieces ? Of his style, what is observed ? 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


541 


PAGE. 

101 William Caxton. 

Who was William Caxton ? What was the first book 
printed in the English language?—the first printed in 
England ? How many works did Caxton translate or 
write ? 

101-104 Sir Tiiomas More. 

Who was More ? What were his abilities and attainments? 
What is More’s Utopia? What is the value of his His¬ 
tory of Edward V. ? What else did he write ? What 
trials did he meet with at the end of his life ? 

106-107 Roger Asciiam. 

What offices did Ascharn hold near the person of Queen 
Elizabeth? What is Ascham’s Toxophilus? What does 
his Schoolmaster contain? What are the merits of As¬ 
cham’s writings ? What occasioned his death ? 


FIFTH PERIOD. 

Tiie Modern English Period. 

112-118 The mistake of attributing the extraordinary 

INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT OF THIS PERIOD TO 

the Protestant Reformation. 

How does the intellectual movement in the fifth period com¬ 
pare with that of preceding ages? Did the Reformation 
originate, accelerate, or check the intellectual activity of 
Europe ? How far is it proposed to discuss this question ? 
What was the effect of the Reformation on literature 
in general, according to Erasmus?—Hallam?—Thomas 
Arnold? What effect did the regulations of the Star 
Chamber have on literature ? What was the effect of the 
Reformation on the fine arts? Is philosophy connected 
with literature? To what must the fundamental principle 
of the Reformation lead? What, in fact, have been the 
effects of the Reformation on philosophy? What have 
been the effects of a material, sceptical philosophy upon 
literature ? Are civilization and literature connected with 
peace and order in the State ? Where is the best guar¬ 
antee of peace and order found? How do the principles 
of the Reformation stand in reference to the spirit of 
obedience and the spirit of justice? Have facts been in 
keeping with these principles of the Reformation? What 
is the opinion of Hallam and Guizot on the connection 





QUESTIONS TO 


548 

PAGE. 

between the Reformation and civil liberty?—that of Hallam 
on the connection between the Reformation and religious 
liberty? What says Bancroft concerning religious liberty 
in England? Did religious liberty exist in colonial Vir¬ 
ginia and New England? What conclusion do the facts 
just enumerated force upon us? 

118-122 Real causes oe human progress and literary 

IMPROVEMENT IN THE MODERN PERIOD. 

What cause of human progress and literary improvement is 
placed in the first rank? why? From what danger did 
the Church preserve the new civilization of Europe ? 
What benefit has civilization derived from the Crusades ? 
—the decline of the feudal system and the abolition of 
slavery?—the elevation of the female character and the 
restoration of woman to her proper station in society ? 
What was a more immediate cause of the progress of letters 
in Western Europe? Did letters flourish in countries into 
which the Reformation was not introduced? What con¬ 
tributed most of all to the development of literature in 
modern times? With what rapidity were books brought 
into circulation, after the invention of printing? What 
was the effect of the introduction of the press, in England ? 
What checked the progress of literature in England ? 

122- 123 The Augustan age op English literature. 

What is said of the works produced during the fifty years 
previous to the civil war? What names illustrate this 
period ? What were the defects of this period ? 

123 The Civil War, Protectorate, and Restoration. 

Were the Civil War, the Protectorate, and the Restoration 
favorable to literature ? What are the great names of this 
period ? 

123- 124 The eighteenth century. 

What, for a long time, was the period of Queen Anne thought 
to be ? What is the prevailing sentiment now ? What is 
the merit of Pope and Addison? What literary names 
illustrate the reign of George III. ? 

124- 125 The nineteenth century. 

Who are the poets of the 19th century? What expansion 
have fiction, criticism, and other branches of literature, 
received in this century ? 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


549 


PAGE. 

125-126 Robert Southwell. 

Who was Robert Southwell? Where did he study? To 
what ministry did he devote himself? To what trials was 
he subjected? What are the themes of his writings? 
What is the judgment passed on Southwell by Ben Jonson 
and Angus ? 

132-135 Edmund Spenser. 

What surname has been given to Spenser ? What is the 
Shepherd’s Calender? What age of Spenser’s genius does 
his Mother Hubbard’s Tale represent? What is Spenser’s 
great poem? What is the plan of The Fairie Queene? 
What is the merit of Spenser’s poetry? What is the 
Spenserian stanza? What are the defects of Spenser’s 
poetry, and, in particular, of the Fairie Queene? What 
misfortunes befell Spenser in the last years of his life? 

138-140 Thomas Sackville, 

Who was Thomas Sackville? What is said of his tragedy 
of Gordobuc?—of the Mirror of Magistrates ? What seems 
to be the peculiarity of Sackville’s genius ? to what may 
this characteristic be attributed ? 

142- 143 The early drama and dramatists. 

What is a good drama ? Are scenic representations in 
accordance with nature? How far back may theatrical 
entertainments be traced in Christian Europe? What 
were the Myracle plays?—the Moral plays? Which is 
the earliest known English comedy?—the oldest English 
tragedy ? Of the growth of the drama, what is observed ? 

143- 148 William Shakspeare. 

What rank does Shakspeare hold among poets ? What is 
known of his life? — learning?—the source whence he 
drew his language ? Into what classes may his genuine 
dramatic pieces be divided ? How many comedies has he 
left, and how are they divided? How many tragedies, 
and how divided ? How many chronicle plays ? based on 
what? Which are his best productions? Which is his 
masterpiece? What constitutes the essence of Shakspeare’s 
genius? What are his defects? What is his reserve in 
reference to ecclesiastical persons and religious subjects ? 
What, in this respect, is the difference between him and 
Milton?. Besides his dramatic works, what did Shakspeare 
write ? 


550 


QUESTIONS TO 


PAGE. 

164-166 Francis Bacon. 

What is Bacon termed by many ? What book did he write 
first? at what age ? What were his talents? character? 
political life ? What is said of his Essays ?—De Sapientia 
Veterum ?—Elements of the Laws of England?—De Aug¬ 
ments Scientiarum?—Novum Organum? What appre¬ 
ciations have been given of Bacon’s merit? W T here does 
the truth lie ? 

168-170 Ben Jonson. 

Who was Ben Jonson ? How much did he write for the stage ? 
How does he rank as a dramatist? Besides his dramatic 
pieces, what has he written ? Which are his best dramas? 
How do his characters compare with Shakspeare’s ? W’hat 
did he regret in his dying moments ? 

175-176 Abraham Cowley. 

What is said of Cowley’s life, education, and early taste for 
poetry ? Into what classes are his poetical works divided ? 
What was his scholarship? What are his defects ? What 
is the merit of his prose ? 

179-185 John Milton. 

What rank does Milton hold as a poet ? When did he write 
his Ode on the Nativity? What is said of Milton’s Lyci- 
das? Comus? L’Allegro ? II Penseroso ? Tractate on 
Education ? Areopagitica ? Defensio pro Populo Angli- 
cano ? What contrast is everywhere apparent in Milton’s 
writings? What is the plan of Paradise Lost? What are 
its solemnity and magnificence ? its defects as a sacred 
poem? Are Milton’s heterodox opinions likely to be pro¬ 
ductive of much harm ? Of Milton’s style in Paradise 
Lost, what is observed ? What is the merit of Paradise 
Regained? What is Samson Agonistes? what are its 
beauties and defects? What are the defects of Milton’s 
prose writings ? What occupied the last years of his life ? 

196-198 Samuel Butler. 

Where did Samuel Butler acquire the materials for his Hudi- 
bras? Whence is the name of Hudibras taken? What 
are the theme, versification, plot, learning, wit, and pun¬ 
gency of Hudibras ? With what favor was it received ? 
What is its style? Did the success of Hudibras extricate 
its author from indigence? 



BRITISH LITERATURE. 


551 


PAGE. 

201-204 John Dryden. 

Who was Dryden ? What is said of him as a dramatic 
writer? What is Annus Mirabilis ? Absalom and Achi- 
topel ? Religio Laici ? The Hind and the Panther ? What 
are Dryden’s other poetical works ? VY hich are his prin¬ 
cipal prose compositions? What is the excellence of his 
prose ? What were Dryden’s disposition and moral char¬ 
acter ? 

211-213 Joseph Addison. 

Who was Addison ? W^hat is said of his proficiency in clas¬ 
sical learning ? To what periodicals was he a contributor, 
and with what success ? What is the merit of Addison’s 
Cato ?—Letter to Lord Halifax ? What are Addison’s 
Evidences of Christianity? In what esteem is Addison 
held as a writer ? What is said of his religious and politi¬ 
cal.opinions ? disposition and moral character? 


217-218 Daniel Defoe. 

W’ho was Defoe ? What professions did he successively em¬ 
brace ? At what age did he write his first prose fiction ? 
By what works was Robinson Crusoe followed ? What is 
the merit of Robinson Crusoe ? How far may Defoe be 
considered a moral writer ? 

222-224 Alexander Pope. 

Who was Pope ? What is related of his early education, and 
fondness for poetry ? To what period of his life is assigned 
his Ode on Solitude ? At what age did he write his Pas¬ 
torals? What is the merit of his Essay on Criticism? 
Translation of the Iliad ? What is said of his Satires and 
Epistles ? of the Dunciad ? What is the Essay on Man ? 
What is Pope’s rank as a poet ? What is said of his pri¬ 
vate character ? In what sentiments did he die ? 


229-231 Jonathan Swift. 

Who was Jonathan Swift ? With what success did he prose¬ 
cute his studies ? What is the Tale of a Tub ? The Battle 
of the Books ? What gave Swift unbounded popularity in 
Ireland ? Which is the most original of his productions ? 
W’hich are his most important political tracts ? What is 
the merit of Swift’s poetical works ? Under what infirmi¬ 
ties did he labor towards the end of bis life ? 


552 


QUESTIONS TO 


PAGE. 

235-237 James Thomson. 

When did Thomson write the various parts of his poem of 
The Seasons ? What is his merit as a descriptive poet ? 
Does he enjoy much reputation as a tragic poet? Which 
is the most brilliant effort of his genius ? What is said of 
his private character ? 

242-243 William Collins. 

What rank does Collins hold among the British poets ? What 
pieces did ho publish, either whilst at the University, or 
afterwards ? What is the merit of his Ode on the Pas¬ 
sions ?—Ode to Evening ? What clouded the last years of 
his life ? 

248-251 Edward Young. 

For what was Young remarkable in the course of his studies ? 
What tragedies did he write ? what are their respective 
merit ? what, that of his epistles entitled the Love of 
Fame? On which of his poems does his fame rest ? What 
are the merits of Night Thoughts? What is said of 
Young’s private character? 

254-256 Thomas Gray. 

In what capacity did Gray first appear as an author? What 
was his first poetical production ? What is his chief work ? 
its merit? What are his other works? What was his 
eminence as a scholar ? his character ? 

260-262 Oliver Goldsmith. 

What was Goldsmith’s success as a student? What did he 
undertake on leaving the University ? In what capacity 
did he make his first appearance as a writer? What is 
The Citizen of the World?—The Traveller?—The Deser¬ 
ted Village? What else did Goldsmith write? What are 
his characteristics, as a writer ?—his faults, as a man ? 

266-269 David Hume. 

What was Hume distinguished for during his course of 
studies ? Where did he pass the greater part of his life 
and with what result? What philosophical treaties did he 
write ? what are the tendency and aim of these works ? 
What is the merit of his Political Discourses ? With what 
favor was his History of Great Britain received ? Is this 
History, as a whole, of high authority? What did the 
literary distinction of Hume procure lor him ? In what 
sentiments did he die ? 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


553 


PAGE. 

271-275 Samuel Johnson. 

What qualities obtained for Johnson great ascendency in the 
world of letters? When did he enter upon his career of 
author by profession ? What is said of his satires, entitled 
London and The Vanity of Human Wishes?—his tragedy 
of Irene ?—Prologue on tho Opening of the Drury Lane 
Theatre ? Did his journals the Rambler and The Idler 
meet with much success ? What does his edition of Shak- 
speare contain that is valuable ? Which is his principal 
work? What is Rasselas? the Journey to the Western 
Islands of Scotland? his best prose work? What con¬ 
tributed to make him a man of mark in his time ? What 
are his merits, as an author?—his qualities, as a man ? In 
what state of health and frame of mind did he spend tho 
last years of his life ? 

278-279 William Robertson. 

Who was Robertson ? What histories has ho written ? What 
are his qualities and defects, as a historian ? 

281-283 Edward Gibbon. 

What st?p did Gibbon take at the age of sixteen ? What 
other change occurred afterwards in his religious views ? 
How much labor did he bestow on his great work ? What 
is the plan of his History ? What is the quality, in this 
work, that first strikes the reader ? What spirit disfigures 
Gibbon's History? What are the excellence and the 
defects of the style ? 

286-289 Edmund Burke. 

Who was Edmund Burke? For what was he distinguished, 
even as a boy? What was his first publication? Of his 
Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful, what is observed? 
What, of his parliamentary and political career ? For 
what are his speeches and pamphlets on the French Revo¬ 
lution remarkable? His last production deserves what 
praise? Of his political writings, what is observed? 
What, of his oratory? What, of his character? What 
impaired his domestic comfort? How did he spend the 
last three years of his life ? 

291-294 William Cowper. 

Upon what poetical field was Cowper one of the first to 
venture? How much did he suffer at school? Was his 
subsequent life happy? why not? At what age was his 
poetical genius exhibited? What are the principal topics 
of the first volume of poems which he published ? What 
is his masterpiece ? On what themes does The Task turn ? 

47 




554 


QUESTIONS TO 


What is the Tirocinium? Was his Translation of Homer 
a success ? What are the characteristics of his poetry ? 

301-302 James Beattie. 

Who was James Beattie? What are his principal works? 
Which is the work upon which his fame chiefly rests ? 
What is the theme of The Minstrel ?—its literary merit? 
What did Beattie love to contemplate ? 

304-307 George Gordon Byron. 

How did young Byron conduct himself at the University? 
What was his earliest production ? for what is it chiefly 
remembered? When were the first two cantos of Childe 
Harold published, and how were they received? What 
narrative poems soon followed? what is their merit? 
Was Byron successful, as a dramatic writer? When did 
the third and fourth cantos of Childe Harold appear? 
W T hat had been Byron’s first design in his Childe Harold? 
Who is Harold, the hero of the poem ? What poem closed 
Byron’s literary career ? What is embodied in Don Juan ? 
What disfigures this poem? What are the characteristics 
of Byron’s genius ? What renders his writings pernicious ? 
What were his exertions for the independence of Greece ? 

311-312 William Koscoe. 

How did Roscoe attain to scholarship ? What labor did he 
bestow on the Life of Lorenzo de Medici? With what 
success ? Did his Life of Leo X. obtain the same success ? 
why not ? What clouded Roscoe’s latter days ? Was Ros- 
coe’s love of literature thereby diminished ? 

314-318 Walter Scott. 

How is Walter Scott considered, as a writer of imagination ? 
—as a poet? What was he noted for during his course of 
studies ? Of his poems, what is observed? When did he 
turn his thonghts to prose, and what works did he pro¬ 
duce ? What are his characteristics, as a writer of fiction ? 
What have his tales displaced ? What impression do they 
leave upon either the mind or the heart? What were 
Scott’s last productions? What is said of his shattered 
health, and of his death? 

322-324 On Novels and Novel-Reading. 

What is the novel ? In what does it differ from the romance ? 
In what does its merit consist? Who were the chief novel 
writers from Defoe to Scott, and what is their respective 
merit? What is said of their imitators? By what stan¬ 
dard must novels, professedly moral, be tested? How do 
most of them stand this test? What are the effects of 


PAGE. 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


555 


habitual novel-reading on morals?—the mental faculties? 
—the literary taste ? 

325-326 George Crabbe. 

What is Crabbe styled by Byron ? What is said of his 
education and first profession ? What poems first gained 
him celebrity ? On what does he dwell in his poems ? 
How does he redeem this fault ? What are his other 
works? What is the characteristic of his poetry ? 

328 -330 S. Taylor Coleridge. 

What dispositions did Coleridge evince from his boyhood ? 
Of his after-life, what is observed ? What was he in 
religion and politics? What is said of The Itime of the 
Ancient Mariner? What, of his other poetical works? 
Mention his prose works. What reputation did he enjoy, 
as a conversationist ? What are the characteristics of his 
poetry ? 

333-336 Kobert Southey. 

Who was Southey? How much did he write and study? 
What was he in politics? What is Thalaba? Madoc ? 
The curse of Kehama ? Roderic ? Did Southey write much 
in prose? What is said of his History of Brazil, and the 
History of the Peninsula War ?—of the Life of Nelson ?— 
of his other historical works? What are the defects and 
merits of Southey’s prose works ? 

338-339 Thomas Campbell. 

Who was Campbell? What is the Pleasures of Hope? 
What gave occasion to the two lyrics: the Exile of Erin, 
and Hohenlinden? What is Lochiel’s Warning? Ger¬ 
trude of Wyoming ? Which are Campbell’s finest pieces? 
Which of his prose writings deserve to be mentioned? 

342-344 Sidney Smith. 

Smith was the originator of what ? What gave occasion to 
his Letters of Peter Plymley ? what was their success? 
What did he lecture on at the Royal Institution ? What 
were the qualities of Smith, as a writer and a man ? What 
account of himself did he give, not long before his death ? 

346-348 William Wordsworth. 

Wordsworth is the founder of what? What gave occasion 
to his Descriptive Sketches in Verse? What success did 
his Lyrical Ballads meet with ? By what are his finer 
productions characterized? What service has he rendered 
to English poetry? What is he too fond of? What ac¬ 
counts for the various estimates formed of his poetry ? 
What is now the more general opinion of critics ? 


556 


QUESTIONS TO 


PAGE. 

350-352 Francis Jeffrey. 

What fresh walk in literature was opened at the beginning 
of this century ? What part did Jeffrey play in this new 
field? Wa3 he qualified for the profession of critic? What 
was Jeffrey’s career after resigning the editorship of the 
Review ? What portion of his contributions to the Review 
has been published? What was Jeffrey’s principle of 
criticism ? 

354-357 John Lingard. 

What is said of Lingard as a student? as a teacher? What 
is The Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church ? How did 
Lingard prepare himself for his great work? Was he 
qualified to write the History of England? What were 
his sources of information ? What is the truthfulness of 
his History ? the style ? What does the genuine Catholic 
regret to see in Lingard’s History ? How were his merits 
acknowledged by Popes Pius VIf. and Leo XII. ? What 
tribute has Card. Wiseman paid to his memory ? Which 
of Lingard’s minor works may also be noticed ? 

360-363 Tiiomas Moore. 

Moore’s first work was what ? What did he publish under 
the pseudonym of Thomas Little ? What is the theme of 
the volume entitled Epistles, Odes, and other Poems ? 
What is said of Moore’s political and personal satires? 
What is his chief work ? What pervades the Irish Melo¬ 
dies ? What memories and feelings do the Melodies awake ? 
What is Lalla Rookh ? What historical works did Moore 
write ? What is the merit of his Travels of an Irish Gen¬ 
tleman . . . ? In what do Moore’s excellencies consist ? 
What is his great fault ? 

373-669 Samuel Rogers. 

Who was Samuel Rogers? Rogers is the author of what 

poems ? What characterizes his poetry ? What is said 
of his love of the beautiful? his benevolence ? 

370-372 Henry Hallam. 

Who was Hallam ? What is Hallam’s View of the State of 

Europe . . . ? What is his Constitutional History of 
England ? What is the merit of his Introduction to the 
Literature of Europe in the 15th, 16th, and 17th centuries? 
Is Hallam wholly free from partiality? What misfor¬ 
tunes befell him in his latter years ? 

373-375 Thomas Babington Macaulay. 

Who was T. B. Macaulay ? Of his first article, what is ob¬ 
served ? What gave occasion to his essays on Lord Clive 
and Warren Hastings? What are his poetical works? 



PAGE. 


BRITISH LITERATURE. 


557 


What is said of the collection of his Critical and Historical 
Essays? of his contributions to the Enclyclopjedia Britan- 
nica ? Is Macaulay a safe critic? What History did he 
write ? What is its literary merit ? its historical value? 

377-379 William Makepeace Thackeray. 

W here was Thackeray born, and where did he study? To 
what art did he first apply himself, and what pursuits did 
he subsequently follow? In what capacity did he first 
attract notice, and then gain popularity, as a writer? 
Under what names did his papers appear? Which of^his 
works is considered as his masterpiece ? In what is he said 
to fail ? How much did he write ? Which are his greatest 
works ? 

381-383 Nicholas Patrick Wiseman, 

Where was N. P. Wiseman born, and where did he study? 
What is his Horae Syriacae? What offices did he fill in 
succession, at Rome? What did he deliver in 1835 and in 
2836 ? To what dignities was he raised in 1850, and what 
did he then address to the English people? With what 
had his long residence in Rome familiarized him, and on 
what did it enable him to lecture? What is Fabiola? 
W T hat are his Essays on Various Subjects? What other 
works did Card. Wiseman write? What is said of his 
style ?—mental attainments ?—popularity ?—earnestness of 
religious feeling ? 

386-389 Charles Dickens. 

Amidst what occupations did Charles Dickens spend his early 
life? What professions did he subsequently follow, and 
how did he qualify himself for his after career as an 
author ? In what papers did he write his Sketches ? 
What reputation did they gain for him? What Papers 
and tales followed the Sketches, and with what favor were 
they received ? What is said in reference to Dickens’s 
visit to the United States? In what publications did he 
show his disappointment ? What is his Picture of Italy 
worth ? Which are his other principal works ? What is 
the influence of Dickens’s novels on society ? 

392 394 Thomas Carlyle. 

W r ho is Carlyle? What did he publish between 1824 and 
1834 ? What is his Sartor Resartus ? What is The French 
Revolution ? What are his other works ? By what are 
Carlyle’s works marked ? 

395-397 John Henry Newman. 

Who is John H. Newman? What various posts has he 
occupied ? Within whose influence did he find himself at 

47 * 


558 


QUESTIONS TO 


PAGE. 

4t)0- 

407- 


413 

414 

414 

415 


Oxford ? What revolution in religious thought has he 
effected? By what are his works marked? Under what 
heads may his works he ranged? What is said of his 
reply to Mr. Gladstone? 

-404 Alfred Tennyson. 

Who is Alfred Tennyson ? What was his first publication ? 
flow were his early productions received? With what 
effect on the poet? From what sources does he draw? 
What is Tennyson’s great work ? In what order are the 
various parts of the Idylls intended to be read ? To what 
is the harmony of Tennyson’s poetry compared? 

-408 Aubrey de Yere. 

Who is Aubrey de Vere? What influence are some of his 
productions said to have had on Irish policy ? As a poet, 
what is he the author of? What are the merits of his 
religious poems? With what has he enriched his Selec¬ 
tions from the Poets? What is said of his Irish Odes and 
Other poems ? What is his greatest work ? What is the 
defect of Mr. dc Yore’s poetry? 


PART II. 

AMERICAN LITERATURE. 

FIRST PERIOD. 

The Colonial Era, 1607 - 1161 . 

The New England Puritans. 

In what form was the intellect of this period chiefly devel¬ 
oped? why? Of the Puritan School, what is observed? 
Which arc the most noted names of this period ? 

Metrical compositions. 

What judgment must be passed on the metrical compositions 
of this period? In whose favor is an exception to be made ? 

-415 The first book published in America. 

What was the first book published in British America ?_the f 

first newspaper? 

George Sandys. 

What was the first English literary production penned in , 
America? by whom? where? ‘Whose praises did the I 
translator earn for himself? Of Sandys’s book of travels 
what is remarked ? 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


559 


PAGE. 

416-418 Roger Williams. 

Among whom does Roger Williams hold a distinguished 
rank ? Of his life, what do we know ? Of his works, 
which is mentioned ? 

418-419 Michael Wigglesworth. 

Who was M. Wigglesworth ? What is his Day of Doom ? 
Of what else is he the author ? 

420 James Logan. 

Who was James Logan ? Enumerate his works. What 
were his abilities and moral virtues? 

421 Cadwallader Colden. 

Who was C. Colden? For what does he deserve a place in 
American literature? What are his other works and 
manuscripts ? 

SECOND PERIOD. 

The Revolutionary Period. 

422- 423 The Literary Character of the Period. 

W r ith what does this period begin ? what formed its staple ? 
when does it close ? Of the oratory and orators of this 
period, what is observed ? What, of the great legislators ? 
What, of the general character of literature ? 

423- 424 James Otis. 

Who was J. Otis? What is said of his collegiate course? 
subsequent studies? practice of the law? What educa¬ 
tional works did he compose? Whence dates his public 
career ? Of what political pamphlets was he the author ? 
What accident impaired his mental faculties ? what other 
accident deprived him of life ? 

225-428 Benjamin Franklin. 

Who was B. Franklin ? How did he make up for the defi¬ 
ciency of a collegiate education ? What is said of his 
attempts at poetry ? Of his stay in London, what is ob¬ 
served ? Of what did he become the publisher? of what 
was he the founder ? In what capacity did he reside in 
England for the second time, then in France? What 
offices did he subsequently fill in this country ? What is 
remarked of his autobiography? Correspondence? philo¬ 
sophical writings? papers on Electricity? moral writings? 
What warning of Franklin’s deserves to be remembered ? 
Under what heads have his writings been classified? 





560 


QUESTIONS TO 


PAGE. 

431-432 Francis Hopkinson. 

Who was Hopkinson? By what pamphlets did he promote 
the cause of independence? Which are the best known of 
his poems ? Name his chief satirical pieces. For wit and 
satire, to whom has he been compared ? In the interest of 
education, what did he write ? 

435 Jeremy Belknap. 

Who was J. Belknap ? What History did he write ? what 
are the merits of this work ? What is The Foresters ? 
W r hat else did Belknap write? 

436 David Ramsay. 

Who was D. Ramsay ? What part did he play in American 
politics ? What works have we from his pen ? For what 
was he remarkable ? What was his industry ? WBat was 
the manner of his death ? 

437-438 Hugh Henry Brackenridqe. 

Who was Hugh H. Brackenridge ? How did he succeed in 
securing the advantage of a collegiate education ? What 
professions did he successively follow ? What is his great 
work? In what esteem is it held? W T hat are the plan 
and the object of Modern Chivalry ? W T hat else has 
Brackenridge written ? 

439- 440 Alexander Hamilton. 

Where was Hamilton born ? where educated ? How early 
and in what manner did he lend his cooperation in the 
cause of independence ? What was his share in the fram¬ 
ing of the Constitution? in bringing about its adoption? 
How much of The Federalist came from his pen, and what 
distinguishes the numbers he has written ? What is said 
of his eloquence ? administrative capacity ? the manner of 
his death ? 

440- 442 Thomas Jefferson. 

Where was Jefferson born? Where did he receive his edu¬ 
cation? With whom did he study law? What were his 
exertions in the cause of independence? What public 
offices did he successively fill ? Of the private life he sub¬ 
sequently led, what is related? Name his various works, 
and state their respective merit. Of his style, what is 
observed ? Against what ought the reader of his works 
be in guard ? 

445-446 John Jay. 

Who was John Jay? What has he written? Jay filled 
what important posts ? What was his character, and what 
place did ho hold in the confidence of Washington? 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


5C1 


PAGE. 

447-418 James Madison. 

At college, what was Madison’s conduct? application? 
Madison held what offices? What was he the only one to 
preserve? Of his contributions to the Federalist and 
other writings, what is observed ? After his two presiden¬ 
tial terms, he lived whert, and in what manner? What 
advice has he bequeathed to his countrymen ? 

449- 4-50 John Trumbull. 

TV hat means did Trumbull employ to perfect himself as a 
scholar? What are the metre, plan, and object of his 
Progress of Dullness ? Upon what is McFingal modeled ? 
how does it compare with Iludibras? What is the char¬ 
acter of the hero? What are his adventures? What 
honors did Trumbull enjoy ? Where did he die ? 

450- 451 Philip Freneau. 

Who was Freneau ? Where was he educated ? During the 
Revolutionary War, what did he publish? Freneau gave 
the first examples of what? The war of 1812 gave him 
what occasion? What were Freneau’s abilities? Of his 
poems, what is observed? Which are his best pieces? 

THIRD PERIOD. 

The Present Century. 

453- 454 TnK progress of American literature. 

What things give evidence of the steady advance of civiliza¬ 
tion in our country ? In the various walks of learning, 
what are the most distinguished names of this period? 
W T hat may be expected ? 

454- 455 Joseph Dennie. 

Dennie followed first what profession, then applied to what 
pursuits? In the Farmer’s Museum, what did he publish? 
In Philadelphia, what did he establish ? What reputation 
did he enjoy? What were his literary merits? What 
influence did he exert? In what was he deficient ? 

455- 457 . Charles Brockden Brown. 

Of Brown’s descent and pursuits, what is remarked? What 
was he the first to do in America? Name his novels. 
What is their character? What are their qualities and 
defects ? He started and carried on what periodicals ? 

457-458 William Wirt. 

Who was W. Wirt? What has he written ? W T hat are the 
merits of his writings? At the bar, what was his reputation ? 


562 


QUESTIONS TO 


PAGE. 

458-459 John Marshall. 

Who was John Marshall? What part did he take in the 
politics of this country? In 1801, he was raised to what 
station? What work has he written? What illustrates 
the simplicity of his manners? What monument of his 
learning has been publishe*d since his death? 

460 James A. Hillhouse. 

What was Hillhouse remarkable for in his boyhood and at 
college? What is said of his poem—The Judgment? 
Percy’s Masque? Hada? Of his orations, which are the 
principal ? 

461-462 Washington Allston. 

Who was W. Allston? During his sojourn in Europe to 
what did he apply himself? What has given him a rank 
among the poets of America? What else did he write? 
How did he spend the latter part of his life ? 

463-465 John England. 

Where was Bishop England born and educated? In what 
duties, ministerial and literary, was he engaged previously 
to his consecration as bishop? What title did he acquire? 
What Society did he form? What was his activity? 
How much did he write? On wliat subjects? What was 
his eloquence? 

466-469 Daniel Webster. 

Where was D. Webster born and educated? What profes¬ 
sion did he embrace ? He delivered what grand oration in 
1820?—1825?—1826? What marked the year 1830? 
What public functions did Webster fill at various times? 
On being apprized of Scott’s nomination for the presi¬ 
dency, he made what answer? What did his death excite? 
For what will he be remembered? What appreciation 
have we of his intellectual and oratorical power ? 

471-473 James Fenimore Cooper. 

Where did Cooper pass his boyhood ? He spent six years in 
what service? Name his first three productions ; his first 
sea-novel. What works followed ? What has placed him 
at the head of nautical novelists ? What are his charac¬ 
teristics as a writer ? Besides his novels, what has he 
written ? What was his private character? 

477-478 Lydia Huntley Sigourney. 

Of Mrs. Sigourney’s parents, what is observed? What, of 
her own abilities? Jn what work did she first engage? 
What was her subsequent career? Mention her works. 


PAGE. 


AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


563 


What do these productions display ? What is the merit 
of her poetry?—prose writings? 

480-481 William H. Prescott. 

Where was Prescott born and educated ? At college, with 
what accident did he meet? For ten years, he applied his 
mind to what ? What did he choose for the subject of his 
first work ? What works did he next give to the world ? 
He drew his materials for these Histories from what 
sources? Of their style, what is observed? What is said 
of his last work ? What else did he write ? What are his 
merits as a historian ? What was his character? 

483-486 Washington Irving. 

What is said of Irving’s education and early pursuits? In 
what capacity did he first appear as an author? What is 
the History of New York?—The Sketch-Book?—Brace- 
bridge Hall ? What gave occasion to The Life of Colum¬ 
bus? Whence are the materials drawn ? In what has the 
biographer failed? What is said of The Conquest*of 
Granada ?—The Alhambra ? What welcome did Irving 
receive on his return to America? Name the principal 
works which he wrote in the latter part of his life. What 
are his merits as an author ?—as a historian? What does 
his example teach ? 

488- 489 Kobert Walsh. 

Where did It. Walsh receive his education, and complete his 
studies? What did he publish in 1809?—1811 ?—1813?— 
1819?—1821 ? Of his Review and Didactics, what is ob¬ 
served ? What is said of his connection with distinguished 
foreigners ?—his love of letters ?—his character ? 

489- 491 James K. Pauldtng. 

Who was Paulding? What is The Diverting History?— 
The Lay of the Scotch Fiddle? What is his principal 
poetical production?—his first novel ?—the best of his 
novels? What is found in his writings? Where and 
how did he spend the last years of his life ? 

495-496 Fitz-greene Halleck. 

Who was F. Halleck? What was his first publication? 
Name his other best pieces. How much has Halleck 
written ? What is the merit of his poetry ? Of its 
rythmical inequalities, what is observed ? 

498-499 Jared Sparks. 

What is said of Sparks’s early life and education? What 
was his first profession? Afterwards, what pursuits did 



564 


QUESTIONS TO AMERICAN LITERATURE. 


PAGE. 

he follow? Mention his principal publications. "What 
was his industry ?—character? 

498-501 George Ticknor. 

By what means did G. Ticknor attain eminence in scholar¬ 
ship? At Harvard, he lectured with what success ? What 
is his great work? its merit? What is his second greatest 
work? its merit? Of Ticknor’s industry as a librarian, 
what proof is given ? 

501-502 Martin John Spalding. 

Where did M. J. Spalding receive his education? At the 
end of his theological course, what examination did he 
pass? In what duties was he first engaged as a priest? 
Subsequently, he was raised to what dignities ? Name his 
principal works. Of his productions, which is the most 
popular ? His death called forth what manifestations ? 

504- 505 Richard Henry Dana. 

Who is R. H. Dana? What was his first profession? In 
the American Review, what did he publish ? what, in The 
Idle Man ? in the New York Review? What is his chief 
work ? its merit ? Of his lectures on Shakspeare, what is 
observed ? What is the style of his prose writings ? 

505- 507 William Cullen Bryant. 

Who is W. C. Bryant ? How early did he begin to write 
verses ? What did he publish at the age of fourteen ? with 
what success ? Whilst following the profession of the law, 
what poems did he write? Of his prose writings, what is 
observed ? Mention the chief of his poetical productions 
not already named ? What are the characteristics of his 
poetry? What has Mr. Bryant just translated? What 
may we regret he has not done ? 

510-511 George Bancroft. 

Who is G. Bancroft? Where did he study? What were 
his first literary productions ? Which is "his great work ? 
What are its merits? its defects? Of his public career, 
what is remarked ? 

512-515 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

Who is H. W. Longfellow ? How did he qualify himself for 
the duties of professor ? What is his eminence in scholar¬ 
ship ? Name the principal among his writings ? By what 
is his genius characterized ? Of his being a'popular poet, 
what testimony can be given ? What, metres has he used 
more than any other English poet ? Q ] 
















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